


I Didn't Know I Was Lonely Until We Met

by rubygirl29



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Army vet bucky barnes, Artist Steve Rogers, Bakery and Coffee Shop, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, sort of a birthday fic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-03-12
Updated: 2017-10-08
Packaged: 2018-03-17 11:53:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 34
Words: 105,579
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3528437
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rubygirl29/pseuds/rubygirl29
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A cold day brings a broken soldier and a homeless artist together. It's the best thing that could possibly happen.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is officially not a one-shot. Thank you to everybody who is reading, commenting and leaving kudos! I will try to post a chapter every Friday or Saturday until the story is finished. 
> 
> Tags have also been updated as has the rating since these two are definitely heading towards a relationship even if it's taking them a while to get there. 
> 
> I can be found on Tumblr as [roses-rambles](http://roses-rambles.tumblr.comroses-rambles)

**I Didn't Know I Was Lonely Until We Met**

It's colder than Bucky remembers being since he was bleeding out on a Godforsaken mountain in Afghanistan. The thermometer in the corner drugstore window reads -4F with a wind-chill of -20F. The confirmation that it _is_ colder than it was in A-stan only makes Bucky feel like his bones will break before he makes it to work. 

Home is a basement apartment two blocks from the Russian bakery where he works. It's not the greatest; the hall smells of mold and borscht, and the windows are so etched with acid that they are a cloudy yellow even when the sun shines. It's cheap by New York standards, the restaurants are close, and there's a decent med clinic nearby. That's pretty much all Bucky needs to live. 

The bakery is run by Natasha Romanov, who inherited it from her "great-uncle" (and yes, Bucky has doubts about the veracity of _that_ relationship). Natasha is regal enough to have earned the right to play up her name. She was also decent enough to hire him, when a one-armed ex-army Sergeant with anger issues and too many blank spaces in his brain is hardly the most qualified person she could find to run the store. They get along okay, and if Bucky calls off sick, she understands, which is more than most bosses would allow. 

He kind of wishes he had called off today, but he's not a coward or a hypochondriac, and he isn't going to pull the wounded vet card just because it's below zero outside. He turns down the alley to the back door, and stumbles over a bundle of rags piled up against the wall. 

"Ouch! Watch where you're going, jerk." The bundle of rags parts and a narrow, triangular face peers out at him. The eyes are big, blue and framed by the longest lashes Bucky has ever seen. The bones are almost too delicate for a man, but the voice is deep and there is unmistakeable stubble on the cheeks and chin. 

Bucky stares. "What the fuck are you doing here?"

"Trying to get out of the wind and get some sleep."

"Not such a great place to do that," Bucky bends down. "And just 'cause you're out of the wind doesn't mean you aren't gonna get frostbite."

"I'm fine."

The exasperated sigh results in a coughing fit that shakes the guy like a skinny sapling in a hurricane. Bucky puts his hand on the guy's shoulder. "Hey, come on in and get some coffee and a _vatrushka_."

He looks suspiciously at Bucky. "I don't know what that is."

"It's kind of like a doughnut. Come on in and let me introduce you."

"My momma said never take pastry with unpronounceable names from strangers." There is a smile playing at the corner of his lips.

Bucky can't help it. He smiles back and holds out his hand. "I'm Bucky Barnes. I kind of manage this place."

"Steve Rogers." He holds out his hand and Barnes' nearly engulfs it. "So, you won't get fired?"

"Nah. The owner cuts me some slack. She'd be more upset if we found you frozen stiff in the alley. Might kinda freak out the delivery guys." He pulls Steve out of the bundle of rags. Geez, the guy is tiny, no more than 5'1 and skinny as a rail. Bucky, who could use some fattening up himself, feels like he's towering over Rogers. He opens the door. "C'mon in."

^*^*^*^*^*^  
Steve ducks inside and nearly passes out from the warmth. His head swims and if there weren't a convenient wall next to him, he's pretty sure he'd be in a heap on the floor.

"You okay?" Bucky's hand is hard and warm closing over Steve's bicep. Steve pulls away, startled by the kindness. Bucky steps back, his hand raised. "Sorry."

"No. It's me. I'm okay." Steve is ashamed of his reaction. "It's the cold. I don't do so well in it."

Bucky nods. "Me, neither. C'mon, I'll get some coffee brewing." He points to a booth near the kitchen door and Steve slides in, tucking himself into the corner. He's so tired, and every bone in his body aches. He shouldn't be here, but he can't move. His traitorous body won't let him. Maybe he can just have a cup of coffee and move on. The coffee smells heavenly, he's warm for the first time in two days, and he's going to savor every second.

He's almost dozed off when Bucky sets a mug in front of him. He wraps his hand around the thick china. clasping it like it's a lifeline. Bucky tops it off with cream and puts a pastry in front of him. Steve looks at it curiously. It's round, filled with cheese and looks like it would keep him full for a week. 

"Steve, meet _vatrushka_."

Steve's mouth quirks in a traitorous smile. "She sure is a looker."

Bucky laughs and sits across from him. "It's good, trust me." He takes a sip of coffee. "Drink up before that coffee goes cold."

"Yes, sir."

The smile fades from Bucky's face. "Don't call me that, okay?"

Steve thinks his brain must have been frozen not to notice that Bucky's left sleeve is empty. "You were in the armed forces?"

"Was. Until this happened." He reaches into the neck of his sweater and pulls out his dog tags. "Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes." 

"I'm s-sorry," Steve stammers. 

Bucky seems to shrug it off. He looks at Steve. "So, what were you doing sleeping in the alley?" He knows Steve can't have been on the streets for very long. He's too clean, his clothes are decent quality, and he doesn't have to look of a closed-off, hardened street person.

"Two days."

"What happened?"

Steve sips his coffee, takes an experimental bite of the _vatrushka._ "It's really good."

"What happened?" Bucky repeats, not at all fooled by Steve's attempt to distract him.

Steve sighs. "It's kind of a long story."

"Have you got an urgent appointment or something?" 

"You're hilarious, Barnes," Steve tries to be sarcastic and fails completely. He takes another bite of pastry. "Okay. I'm an artist, which is pretty much to say I'm kind of starving to begin with. Anyway, I was approached by this gallery to mount a show. Naturally, I jumped at the chance. If I sell enough, then I get to eat, keep a roof over my head … right?"

Bucky nods. He knows other artists; it's hard not to when you run a bakery/coffee-shop in this part of New York. He waits while Steve take another bit of pastry and refills his coffee cup. Now that he doesn't look like he's about to keel over, he's a good-looking guy. Still short and skinny as a rail, but a lot more solid than he had looked earlier. 

"So, I give this guy my paintings and photographs. There's a splashy opening, a lot of sales, things are looking pretty good, you know? Two days later, I go to get my money and see how sales are going, and the gallery is empty, the door locked and no sign of the owner. He took everything. It's bad enough that he stole the money, but he took _everything_ , two years of work … gone."

Steve looks utterly lost for a moment before he meets Bucky's sympathetic study. "My landlord carried me for two months, and I tried to put things together to sell quickly, but it's winter and nobody's looking at street art. Two days ago, I packed up my stuff, used the last of my cash to put it in storage, and the rest to my landlord, and found myself … here." 

"You've never been homeless?"

Steve sighs. "Obviously, I'm failing at it."

Bucky, who's been around that block once or twice himself, just looks sad. He reaches into his pocket and holds out a key. "My place is two blocks west." He scribbles the address on a scrap of an old receipt. "It's not much, but I've got heat, hot water, and a spare couch."

"I-I can't just …"

"Yeah, you can. You look like a decent guy, and I'm paying it forward. I was where you are not so long ago and Natasha helped me get back on my feet."

"You don't know me! I could be an ax murderer or insane —"

"Sorry, buddy. You aren't big enough to wield an ax and you're sure as hell not insane. Plus, I'm a trained special forces sniper. I think I can take care of myself."

"I could steal you blind." Steve keeps trying to understand why this guy, of all people would want to help a total stranger.

Bucky laughs. "Man, if you can find something worth stealing, you're more desperate than I thought. Listen, just take the offer on good faith. You're probably in more danger from me than I am from you."

"Am I?" He looks at Bucky with those wide blue eyes, now a little uncertain.

"No, but it's good you see both sides. That's survival instinct." He puts the key in Steve's palm. "Take the offer. If I get back and you're gone, that's fine. Just leave a note so I know you're okay. There's a decent shelter at St. Malachi's. I know the priest there. Tell him I sent you and he'll take you in no matter what, no questions asked."

"Thanks. I-I don't know what to say. I was looking to get out of the cold. I never expected this."

"I guess it was your lucky day." He gives Steve a one-sided smile. "Well, I've got to start baking bread, so …" 

Steve shoulders his pack. "I'll get out of here. Thanks again."

"The offer to stay at my place stands. St. Malachi's is clean and pretty safe, but it's still a shelter. In this weather it's crowded, noisy, and the guys staying there there can be rough." He doesn't add that Steve'll look like a lamb to the slaughter, but the implication is there. 

Steve nods, his heart starting to pound in his chest. He's been a scrappy fighter all his life, but he's not stupid. He knows how he looks; too skinny, too frail, too vulnerable. He doesn't make any promises, but he nods and heads out the door. He pauses for a moment, torn between going to the shelter, or going to Barnes' apartment. The thought of a private shower and a comfortable couch wins out. He heads towards the apartment building.

Even though Barnes gave him the key, Steve still feels like he's trespassing as he opens the door. Bucky had said his place wasn't much, and maybe so, but to Steve it looks like the Ritz, despite the murky light coming through the dirty street-level windows. He sets his backpack down and looks around trying to orient himself to a place that isn't his own and belongs to the most intriguing stranger he's met in years. 

There is a worn couch with a battle-scarred coffee table in front of it. Pride of place belongs to a modest flat screen TV. Bookshelves made of planks and bricks hold more books than Steve expected. Vintage army posters in cheap frames hang on the walls. A narrow hall leads to a bedroom that can barely contain a double bed and narrow chest of drawers. The bathroom across the hall has spectacularly ugly mustard yellow walls and cracked turquoise tiles around the tub. It makes Steve's eyes hurt. 

He doesn't know what he wants more; sleep or a shower. He's starting to smell like a hobo and he doesn't want to leave that smell on Barnes' furniture. He steels himself to go back into the bathroom, finds towels in the vanity and takes a long, hot shower. He doesn't want to put his old clothes back on, so he settles for wrapping himself in an oversized bath towel. He's dizzy from the heat of the shower and exhaustion. He drops down on the couch, pulls a folded afghan over his body and before he can even think about it, is sound asleep. 

A dumps truck rattling by wakes him up. He blinks in the unexpected twilight. The clock on the cable box reads 5pm. He's slept seven hours and is ravenous and achy. He takes a second shower, just because he _can_ and to ease the stiffness out of his joints. He digs out a pair of jeans and a sweatshirt from his backpack. They're the last clean clothes he has, but maybe Bucky will let him use the laundry in the apartment before he leaves. 

There are some dishes in the sink, rinsed but not washed. Steve figures it's the least he can do to repay Barnes' kindness. He's finishing up when he hears Bucky's key in the lock. He dries the last dish and turns around. 

"Hi …" His words fade. Bucky looks tired, sweaty, and he's clearly in pain. "Bad day?" he asks sympathetically.

"The worst." He flops down on the couch and digs the palm of his hand into his eyes. "Our main oven broke, the new barista burned her hand and had to go to the hospital … we were slammed by a convention of economic historians who have absolutely _no_ sense of humor, and there was some trouble with a supplier who says we didn't pay him. Natasha was in a foul temper, and when Natasha's not happy, nobody's happy."

"Wow. Here I thought life in a bakery would be kind of fun."

"Sometimes it is," Bucky groans, "but not today." He grimaces with pain as he gets off the couch. "I've gotta shower." He gives Steve a takeout menu and a credit card. "You like Chinese?"

"Yes."

"Order something. I'll have the Szechuan beef and broccoli, and some hot and sour soup."

"I'll just get two of those, then?"

Bucky shrugs with his good shoulder. "Sure, if that's what you want." He heads towards the bathroom, more slowly than Steve thinks is usual for him. He calls the restaurant and gives the order, adding some potstickers and crab rangoon. He hopes Bucky won't think he's taking advantage, but he hasn't eaten in two days and if he's going back out there, he needs real food.

Bucky emerges from the steamy bathroom a few minutes later. He's wearing a long-sleeved Giant's t-shirt and sweatpants. His hair hangs in damp curls against his neck, and Steve feels himself blushing because he wants to touch those curls and the warm skin. Thankfully, the buzzer sounds, announcing the arrival of their food. "I'll get it," Steve says, and props the door open with one of Bucky's old boots for a doorstop. 

"There's five bucks in the dish on the counter for the tip," Bucky says. Steve grabs it out of the bowl and goes upstairs to get the food.

Bucky gets out dishes and pours two glasses of water. He takes the pill he'd palmed and drains his glass, then refills it. The pills are a prescription and he tries not to take them too often, but after a day like this, he's glad he has it. 

Steve returns with the takeout, dishes it out and they sit at Bucky's breakfast bar. Steve is trying not to wolf his food down, but it's hard. Bucky, on the other hand, is eating slowly, like every bite of food weighs down his chopsticks. Steve is using a fork, and he decides to try to start a conversation to distract Bucky from his exhaustion.

"I'm not so good with chopsticks. Where'd you learn?"

"Spent six months in Okinawa." He pauses to chew, then sighs. "Okinawa, then Somalia, then Afghanistan." 

Steve blushes. "Oh." He knows Bucky is expecting the next question, but Steve isn't so insensitive to ask it outright. "Did you like it?"

"It's kind of like working in the bakery. Some days it's great. Others, pretty grim." He takes a breath and tilts his head towards his shoulder. "Then there's days that are really, really grim."

"I'm sorry."

"Yeah, me, too. But them's the breaks. You learn to expect shit to happen." 

Steve thinks that Bucky's level of shit happening is entirely different than his own, and he's ashamed that he's been feeling sorry for himself. "I should get out of your hair," he says, not meeting Bucky's eyes. "I'll can go to St. Malachi's."

Bucky can't help but think that a guy like Steve is fair game for all sorts of predators, and he's not going to let that happen. "It's no trouble. It's not like you're taking my bed or anything. You'll sleep better here."

Steve puts his fork down. "I don't want to overstay my welcome. You've already done more than enough for me. I'm a total stranger."

"Not really. You know my name, where I live, that I like Chinese, and more than I tell most people about my past. I know your name, that you like Chinese, that you're an artist, and you were cheated by a rat bastard. I'd say we know each other well enough to be a step beyond mere acquaintance."

"Really? You're sure about this?"Steve can't keep his gratitude from showing on his face, and he knows it, which only makes things worse. 

"Why not?"

Steve can't think of a single reason. When Bucky gets up to clear the counter, Steve holds up a hand. "No way are you cleaning up. I can take care of the dishes. Go, watch TV or read or whatever you like to do."

"You're kind of bossy for a guy your size."

"My ma always said I was small and scrappy. A real Irishman. Too bad I kind of ran out of luck."

Bucky eases back into his chair at the counter. "Hey, I was wondering … I had that barista get hurt today and we're down one anyway. We need help. How would you like a job?"

Steve is staggered by the offer. "Seriously? I don't know a cappuccino from an Americano."

Bucky laughs. "You know there's a difference! That's more that the other kid started out with."

"I'm not a kid."

"No, and that's in your favor. You're smart, you work fast. You need a job and I need a dependable employee. The pay is minimum wage, but there are benefits, plus a free lunch and coffee."

Steve looks at him skeptically. "You're sure about this?"

"I'm game if you are."

Steve thinks of the problems this will solve. He'll have health insurance which, God knows, he needs with allergy season lurking, an income that will allow him to get his art supplies out of storage so he can begin painting again, and at least one solid meal a day. The one problem it won't solve is a place to stay. It will take weeks to save enough for a security deposit. 

Bucky watches the emotions chase across Steve's face. He can't hide a thing behind those blue eyes. He sees relief, the way his brain is calculating the benefits, the sudden doubt. He likes this man, he wants to get to know him better, he wants to help him recover what he's lost. 

"You can stay here while you save up for a place of your own — that is if you don't mind sleeping on the sofa. I'd offer my bed but with my arm the way it is —"

"I won't put you out of your bed, Bucky. I appreciate the offer but —"

"Where else are you going to go? Shelters aren't a long-term solution, and rooming houses and hotels are going to eat up your paycheck faster than you can save it."

"You just met me."

"We've had that argument. Look, I'm not a serial killer, or a creep. How many of your problems have I solved in the space of … " He looks at the clock on the wall. "Ten hours?" He gives Steve a wry, way too charming, smile. "So, it's not a record, but —"

Steve sighs and crumbles. Bucky Barnes is too irresistible for his own good. Or for Steve's peace of mind. 

"I'll stay, but only if you let me pay some of the expenses until I find my own place. Deal?"

He holds out his hand and Bucky takes it tentatively, almost as if he thinks his clasp will break Steve's fingers. "Deal." 

Steve firms his grip just to prove that he may be small, but he's not breakable. Bucky's smile widens. His blue eyes crinkle with laughter. "Ya wanna thumb wrestle me, punk?"

Steve grins back. "You know you're kind of a jerk, Barnes."

Bucky laughs. Oh, yeah. They'll get along just fine.

_TBC_


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bucky and Steve begin a tentative friendship. Bucky is the best friend in the world and Steve tries to understand the complexities that make Bucky Barnes unique. They both pretend like mad that they aren't attracted to each other. Silly boys.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I promised another Chapter, and here it is! I hope you'll be happy that this is to heading to a Chapter Three. I'm posting this in some haste, so I apologize for any errors. They will be fixed eventually.

Two things wake Steve up; the aroma of coffee brewing and the rattle in his lungs. He groans, knowing that the nights on the street have taken their toll on his fragile immune system. He coughs up a gob of phlegm and drags himself out of bed and into the bathroom so he can wheeze and spit. Why does this have to happen _now_ , right at the moment when he thinks his fucked-up life is turning around? Bucky won't want him hanging around with his disgusting cough and weak lungs. He's nothing but a burden.

"Hey, Steve, you okay in there?" Bucky's tap at the door startles him. 

"Yeah. I'll be right out." He drinks some water, rinses his face and opens the door.

"You look like — you look kind of sick," Bucky says when he sees Steve's pallor and the dark circles under his eyes. 

"I'll be okay."

Bucky sets a palm on his forehead before Steve can back away. "You're sick. Get back on the couch."

Steve pushes his hand away. "I said I'll be okay."

Bucky sighs. "Don't be an ass. You're sick. It's not your fault, and I'm not going to kick you out. Go lie down and let me get some tea and Tylenol for you."

Steve would argue, but he can't ignore the way the room is starting to spin lazily around him. If he doesn't get horizontal, Mother Nature will do it for him, and that would just be embarrassing. He lies down and closes his eyes. "Can we start with the Tylenol?"

Bucky gives him two pills, a big glass of water and sets the mug of hot tea on the coffee table. "I've got to get to work. Are you gonna be okay?"

Steve laughs, which is comes out more like a croak. "I'm twenty-seven, not five. I can take care of myself."

Buck looks doubtful. "Okay. The number for the bakery is on the refrigerator. Call if you need anything."

"I'll be _fine_ ," Steve insists. "Go to work. I'm sorry about getting sick."

"Yeah. like sleeping on the streets and getting a cold are your fault." It's about as much Steve's fault as it was Bucky's for having his arm shot to pieces, but he remembers apologizing every two minutes to the nurses and medics taking care of him. "Take care of yourself."

"Go. To. Work." Steve's expression is so stubborn that Bucky holds up his hand in surrender. 

"Leaving." Bucky tugs on his jacket. He's both grateful and hates that it closes with velcro. "So long, punk. I'll bring back soup for dinner. There's eggs, milk and bread, and cereal when you feel like eating. There's oatmeal in the cupboard, too."

Steve nods and burrows under to blankets until only his big blue eyes and the spikes of his blond hair are visible. Bucky thinks he's freaking _adorable_ , and that's just wrong. He beats a retreat out the door and locks it. Now he has to find a way to break the news to Natasha that he found their new barista sleeping on the doorstep. She'll love that.

^*^*^*^*^*^*^

Natasha is an incredibly beautiful redhead with a shady past and a steel-trap mind. She can be ruthless, but she's not hard-hearted. Bucky met her when she found him sleeping in the same alley where he found Steve. Instead of calling the cops to drag his self off to Bellevue psych, she adopted him like a stray cat; feeding him, then luring him inside. She didn't hire him, but she started paying him to bus tables and empty the trash — simple tasks that didn't require a lot of effort and that he could do with one arm. At night, she made him go to St. Malachi's just to get him off the street. 

He could have gone on like that, existing in that half-seen world of homelessness and penury. That wasn't in his cards. One night, when he and Natasha were alone in the shop, two gangs started mixing it up outside. No guns, but plenty of fists, knifes, and broken glass. Some asshole decided to throw a Molotov cocktail through the window. Bucky went into full combat mode; he tackled Natasha to the floor, grabbed the extinguisher from behind the counter and put out the fire. Then he went after the gangs. When the police arrived, three gang members were writhing on the ground. Two had broken arms, one a fractured ankle, two more were unconscious and bleeding. Bucky's good arm was soaked in blood from a deep knife cut, but the knife was in his hands and he was standing over the carnage, shaking, unfocused and seeing only the dangerous streets of a village in the Korenghal Valley. 

Natasha kept the cops from arresting him. She took him back inside the shop, and called Sam Wilson, her friend and VA counselor. Sam drove Bucky to the hospital and never left his side until his arm was stitched up. It was the start of the his rehabilitation. Two months later, Natasha offered him his current job and made the security deposit on his apartment.

It's taken more than a year of intense therapy, but Bucky is stable, able to function in the occasional chaos of the bakery, and feeling his way to normalcy. Is it any wonder that he wants to pay it forward? He thinks he has a good chance. Steve isn't nearly as messed up as Bucky had been. 

Still, he feels a frisson of trepidation when he approaches Natasha. "Can we talk?" he asks, peering into her office. 

She looks up from the spreadsheet on her computer monitor. "Sure. What's going on?"

Bucky suddenly feels awkward in that small space. "I … umm … I think I found a replacement barista."

"Great. When can they start?"

"A few days." He lingers in the doorway. "Natasha, I don't want you to kill me for this … but I kind of found him sleeping in the alley."

Natasha sits back in her chair and raises an elegant brow. "Let's start from the beginning."

Bucky does. He tells her about tripping over Steve, about his recent hardships, even about his apparent fragile health. "He's a good guy, Natasha. He's smart, and not nearly as traumatized as I was when you took me on."

"I wanted somebody who could step right in, not a trainee."

"He'll learn. I know I owe you everything, Natasha, but this guy needs help. He won't survive on the streets. He's not like me. He's … he deserves better than dying of pneumonia in an alley."

Natasha sighs. "Fine. But, James, if he can't do the work, he can't stay."

"Fair enough." Bucky is pretty sure that Steve will be fine. "He's an artist, Natasha. How about letting him do some art for the walls?"

"And selling it?"

Bucky knows he's been caught out. He gives Natasha a sheepish smile. "Why not?"

"I think you have fallen for a sob story, but very well. He — what is his name?"

"Steve Rogers."

"I think you have a soft spot in your heart for this Steve Rogers."

A soft spot in his heart. Is that what aches when he looks at Steve? He doesn't want to be vulnerable and is a little angry that he's allowed Natasha to see it. "Thank you, Natasha."

"You're welcome. Right now, we're short-handed. You'll have to work the front of the house."

Bucky makes a wry face. "So, you'll still be short-handed."

Natasha throws a wadded-up paper at him. "Get out of here and take your bad puns with you."

Bucky grins, and leaves, grateful that Natasha is, on occasion, as soft-hearted as he is.

^*^*^*^*^*^*^

Bucky brings home _piroshki_ from the bakery and chicken soup from the deli down the street. They are two of the most comforting foods he can think of and Steve looks like he could use some cosseting. On a cold night like this Bucky can use some, too. He's aware that he hasn't been taking the time to care for himself. He's starting to feel like he's fading into invisibility, the way he had been when he was just out of the hospital and on the streets. Sam would be lecturing him right now if he knew that. 

He's learned to manage the door with one hand, hanging the shopping bag handles over his arm, while unlocking the door and opening it with his foot. He hopes Steve is awake because it's not the most stealthy entry in the world. 

Steve is burrowed under the covers. A variety of cold medications is on the coffee table along with a half-eaten peanut butter sandwich and a glass of water. Bucky feels guilty for leaving him alone when he's obviously much sicker than he had realized. He sets down the bag of food and walks quietly over to the couch. There is a hard flush on Steve's cheekbones, and when Bucky touches a finger to his forehead, it's feverish. 

Bucky perches on the coffee table. "Steve? Steve, you in there?"

Rogers startles, sits up and looks wildly around. "Wha — " He stares at Bucky with those wide blue eyes. Bucky can see the moment comprehension returns. "Oh. Wow, I was really out of it." He coughs, clears his throat. "Cold medicine does that to me." 

"You've got a fever."

"Yeah. It's not a high one. I'll be okay."

"You sound like death warmed over."

"I usually do when I catch a cold.. I had bronchitis when I was little. My mom said it scarred my lungs, so whenever I cough, I sound a lot worse than I feel."

Bucky thinks he's lying for his benefit. "Right. I brought some soup from the deli and _piroshki_ from the bakery."

Steve smiles. "There you go with the unpronounceable food again."

"Get used to it. Remember, Russian bakery." He goes to the kitchen and dishes out the food. He considers using the counter, but then decides Steve looks like if he managed to get upright, he'd fall over. He puts the food on the coffee table and playfully shoves Steve's afghan and feet aside. "Move it, Longshanks."

"Sarcasm will get you nowhere," but Steve moves his legs and sits up. "That smells really good."

"It is good." 

Steve looks suspiciously at the meat-filled pastry. He takes an experimental nibble, then gives Bucky a broad grin. "These, you can bring me any time." Then he flushes and stammers, "Not that I expect you to …"

"Relax. I'm basically lazy and bring home whatever is easy. Sometimes it's takeout, sometimes it's leftovers from work. It's not a big deal."

"I'll pay my way as soon as I'm earning money," Steve insists stubbornly. 

"Get well, first. Then we'll talk."

By the time they finish eating, Steve is feeling more substantial than he has in a week. He manages to get upright. He gathers the dishes over Bucky's protests and puts them in the sink. There's not much to wash. Even so, it takes him a while. When he returns to the living room, Bucky is slouched down into the cushions, sound asleep. 

Steve wonders about his arm. Why doesn't he have a prosthetic? It's really none of his business, but he's curious. He wonders if it's an effort to not be normal, if Bucky wears his loss like a badge warning of danger. He knows so little about this man who's taken him in, but he feels _safe_ here, not endangered. 

"Hey, Bucky? James?" He knows better than to touch him. "Hey, Bucky?"

Bucky turns his head and opens wide, sleep-dazed blue eyes. He blinks at Steve, then a smile curves his mouth. "Thanks for doing the dishes. You shouldn't have."

"I think I should have. You're exhausted." 

"A little. You want to watch a movie?"

"Sure."

They settle on the original _Godzilla_ just to make fun of the dubbing and because there's nothing in it that will trigger Bucky's PTSD or remind Steve of his recent trauma. By the time the movie ends, Steve is yawning and Bucky feels heavy and relaxed. He likes the brush of Steve's shoulder against his, the sweep of those eyelashes and the soft mouth. 

_Whoa!_ He draws back fast from those thoughts. Rogers is sick and down on his luck. Bucky is too damaged for any kind of relationship and he doesn't even know if Steve swings that way. Bucky has to force himself to move at a normal pace, and not jump away from Steve like he'd touched a live electric socket. 

"You should get some rest," he says. "Take your cough medicine, and I'll see you in the morning."

"Do you usually work on Saturday?"

Bucky pauses. He's lost track of the days. The college kids take the weekends at Natasha's. He doesn't have to be up at the crack of dawn. "Umm. No."

"So you can sleep in?"

Bucky shrugs. "I can, but it doesn't mean I will. I'll try to be quiet."

Steve looks at him. "You don't have to be. I'm usually up early, too."

Bucky is doubtful. He thinks those dark circles under Steve's eyes aren't going to disappear overnight. "We'll see. Maybe we'll both sleep in. Goodnight." He makes a quick stop in the bathroom to clean up and brush his teeth, then heads into his room. He can hear Steve running water, then the quiet pad of his feet as he passes Bucky's door. The creak of the sofa, and then the slit of light leaking under the door is extinguished as Steve turns off the lamp. 

Bucky's last thought before he drifts off to sleep is that for the first time since he came back to the world, he doesn't feel alone.

^*^*^*^*^*^*^

Bucky wakes up slowly, a bit disoriented by the light coming through the small window in his bedroom; he rarely wakes after sunrise even on his day off. He feels rested and can't even remember the last time he felt that sensation. He also smells coffee. It's enough to draw him out of bed. He uses the bathroom, rinses the sleep out of his eyes and goes into the kitchen, where Steve is standing at the stove, flipping pancakes.

He's wearing sweatpants that hang low on his narrow hips, but still manage to showcase a very nice ass. His shirt is too big, but his shoulders are broader than expected and his arms are thin, but there are definite muscles. He has the body of a swimmer, and Bucky has always found that particular body type particularly sexy. God, he's hopeless. Maybe Nat is right and he just ought to go out and get laid. He knows it's not that simple. 

Steve turns and smiles. His blue eyes and sleep-mussed hair make Bucky weak at the knees. He pretends that he's still waking up and sits at the counter. "Is that coffee?"

Steve smiles. "I have made coffee before." He pours a mug for Bucky. "And I do know how to make pancakes." He deftly flips the ones in the skillet. 

"You're better," Bucky observes.

"Yeah. Thanks for taking care of me. It must have been the _piroshki_ and chicken soup."

"Very good. You sound like you're ready to start work on Monday."

"You got me the job?"

"You'll need to talk to Natasha to sign papers, but don't worry, she'll go with it. She might scare you shitless, but she's a marshmallow inside."

"I don't know if you meant that to be reassuring, because, it's not."

Bucky has to smile at that. "She took me in, that should tell you everything you need to know about Natasha."

Steve sets a plate of pancakes in front of him, along with butter and a tin of maple syrup that Bucky had forgotten he had in the cupboard. "You went through my cupboards?"

Steve raises a brow. "The most incriminating thing I found was some highly suspicious cans long past the expiration date. They've probably gone bad by now." 

Bucky shrugs. "They were here when I moved in." He seems oddly defensive and his fingers are tight around his mug. He isn't looking at Steve. He is looking into his coffee like it holds the secrets of the universe. 

Suddenly, Steve is treading on sensitive territory. He can feel Bucky closing down. He doesn't know why, but he thinks he has a pretty good idea. He wonders how long Bucky was homeless before Natasha let him in. It's not something he can ask, not now. "Well, they're not bulging or rusting through, so they're probably okay for a while."

Bucky's fingers relax his death grip on his mug, but he doesn't look up at Steve, not yet. "So, you'll start work Monday?"

"Yeah. Umm, I need to do some laundry, if that's okay?"

"I think I can spring for it."

Steve's mouth turns stubborn. "No. I've got some cash. At least enough to do laundry."

Bucky stomach has stopped churning. He takes a tentative bite of pancake and syrup. To his surprise, his throat doesn't close with nausea. After another bite, he smiles and says, "These are really good."

"Thanks, but don't get your hopes up. Pancakes and re-heating a frozen pizza are the limits of my culinary expertise."

That makes Bucky laugh. "That's two better than me. Though I have mastered the microwave." 

Steve smiles and nods, his mouth full of pancakes, so he doesn't make any other stupid comments. Bucky has secrets, and so does he. The sooner he's out of here, the better for them both. 

They spend the rest of the day doing laundry and finding room for Steve's meager belongings. Bucky clears out the storage ottoman for his clothes. He frowns at Steve's "winter" coat. It's a cheap, fiber-fill parka that doesn't look like it would be good for any temperatures below forty degrees. 

Steve sees him looking at it. "What?"

"This is your winter coat?"

"Umm, yeah."

"No wonder you get sick. C'mon, we're going to the Army/Navy store. Get you something decent."

"I can't afford —"

"I'm hiring you, and you can afford it. Besides as a vet I get a discount."

"Damn it, Buck! I'm not a charity case!"

"It's a loan, okay? Actually, it's an investment. You can't work if you have pneumonia. _That_ costs a lot more than a second-hand coat."

Steve opens his mouth, then closes it. It's hard to argue with logic. "I'm paying you back."

"Do you want to write that in blood?" Bucky raises a brow, and the idea is so ridiculous that Steve has to laugh.

"You're some kind of crazy, Barnes."

"Yeah? Well, I guess my ma dropped me on my head when I was a baby. C'mon, punk. Let's find a better coat."

^*^*^*^*^*^*^

Bucky hasn't been to the Army/Navy store since he had a panic attack there, but he knows they owner is a vet himself and knows what to do when something causes one of his customers to freak out. Besides, Bucky is better than he was back then, at least that's what he tells himself as he opens the door, shoving it with his good shoulder, then stands aside to let Steve in. He closes his eyes for a moment, telling himself that he's safe. He's in Brooklyn, and he needs to get a coat for Steve. He focuses on that and closes the door. 

Steve looks around with interest. Cammo, boots, shirts, various camping paraphernalia and helmets from WWI to Operation Freedom, knives and handguns in locked cases. It's interesting. Bucky looks a little pale in the dim fluorescent light. "Are you okay?" Steve asks quietly.

"Yeah. It's just … too familiar, ya know?"

"I'm sorry, I don't. I wish I did." Steve's hand is warm on Bucky's shoulder. "Where are the coats?" 

Bucky's focus narrows. "Umm, over on those racks."

"Will they have anything in my size?"

Bucky's mouth quirks. "Steve, a 5'1 woman in the army wears the same clothing as a 6'1 guy, just cut smaller, so don't freak out when we go over to the women's coats."

Steve shakes his head. "I still shop in the boys department. I guess shopping in a women's department can't be much more embarrassing." 

Bucky goes over to a rack and starts pulling off coats. He finds two longer parkas and a dark blue pea coat that look like they will fit Steve. "Start with these."

The parkas are too bulky for Steve's slim build. He stifles a laugh at his reflection and says, "I look like the Michelin Man." When Bucky doesn't argue, and hides his grin behind his hand, Steve rolls his eyes and tries the pea coat. It fits perfectly and the wool is thick and warm. Steve nods his approval. "This one."

Bucky agrees, and has to keep his eyes focused on the price tag and not on how blue Steve's eyes look, or how when he turns the collar up, he looks impossibly sexy. "It looks warm enough." He clears his throat. "We'll take this coat, and these." He tosses a dark blue watch cap on the counter and a pair of fleece-lined gloves. Steve is looking at a flannel shirt in a blue and green plaid. Bucky twitches it out of his hands and adds it to their purchases. When Steve objects, Bucky glares. "What? I'm protecting my investment."

The total, minus his discount, is in his price range and he figures he can always hit Natasha up for a few bucks once she meets Steve. He makes Steve wear the pea coat, hat and gloves and folds his old coat to fit in the shopping bag. 

They're about halfway to the apartment, when Bucky pulls Steve into a coffee shop. "I'm hungry, and this place has great coffee and doughnuts."

"I'm buying," Steve insists stubbornly. 

"You shouldn't waste —"

"I'm buying. You've spent too much on me already. I'll pay it back, I swear."

Bucky rolls his eyes. "I'll set up a payment schedule." 

Steve laughs, "You are such a jerk, Barnes."

"I never said I wasn't." 

They drink their coffee and eat in near silence. Steve casts covert glances at Bucky, noticing how long his eyelashes are, how he has this gorgeous cleft in his chin, and how sweetly the powdered sugar clings to his mouth. God, he's got a beautiful mouth. To his embarrassment, Bucky looks up at him. 

"What?"

Steve recovers nicely. "You've got powdered sugar like everywhere." 

"That's 'cause I'm so sweet." He licks his lips and Steve thinks he'll spontaneously combust. 

"Here." Steve tosses a napkin across the table.

Bucky dusts off his fingers and brushes at the sugar on his coat. Steve is looking at him like he wants to devour him. That's fine with Bucky, but the blush on Steve's face is coloring his neck and probably down his chest. Bucky isn't so rude as to comment on it, much less act on it. 

They finish their coffee and gather up their packages. The wind has picked up, and Steve is more than a little grateful for the thick, warm coat. He owes Bucky more than money, but he can't figure out how to say that without sounding like a sap, or like it's a pick-up line, so he doesn't say anything. 

^*^*^*^*^*^*^

"Where did we put my backpack?" Steve asks later, after they've eaten the spaghetti Bucky made with jarred sauce and frozen meatballs. Bucky claims he can't cook, but he's learned how to doctor up the sauce so that it tastes homemade, and with pre-made salad and frozen garlic bread, it was a good meal. 

They've fallen into a rhythm with Steve doing the dishes while Bucky relaxes. Honestly, it only seems fair after all Bucky has done for him, and Steve doesn't mind washing the dishes. He always did them for his mom after she came off her shift at the hospital. This isn't any different, not really. 

Bucky is slouched on the couch, reading _Band of Brothers_. He glances up at Steve's question. "Hall closet, back left corner behind the vacuum."

Steve tugs it out of the closet and riffles through it until he finds his last pad of drawing paper and a charcoal stick. He sits sideways on the couch, his feet up and starts drawing. He begins with a sketch of Romanov's Coffee Shop and Bakery. He draws the apartment wall where Bucky's vintage Army posters make a pleasing arrangement to his artistic eye. Then he moves on to a small profile of Bucky; his head bent over his book, his hair falling against his cheek. He limns the line of his neck, his shoulders, and his empty sleeve. Steve feels self-conscious about drawing that, but it's important in some way that he does. 

When he finishes, he sighs, thinking that as good as it is, he'll end up ripping it into shreds if Bucky takes offense at it. "Buck?" he asks. "Can I show you something?"

"Yeah?" Bucky blinks at him.

Steve holds out the drawing pad. "I'll rip it up, but I wanted you to see it first."

Bucky looks at it and swallows. His eyes mist up. It's not like he doesn't see his body in the mirror every morning. Steve has drawn him with care; his features, his body, the way the sleeve of his t-shirt lies empty below his shoulder. 

Yet, Steve didn't draw him like something ugly, or maimed. It's just him, as he is. To be seen like that validates everything he's been through. It's a lesson Sam has been trying to get him to learn for the last year. Steve has done it in thirty minutes with a few lines of charcoal. 

"You really are good," Bucky says, his eyes not leaving the portrait. 

"That isn't why I showed it to you."

"I know. You drew me as I am. It's honest." He hesitates, then forges on, "Please don't rip it up … Can I have it?"

He looks like he's pleading for mercy. Steve can't help putting his hand on Bucky's shoulder. "Of course. I just didn't want you to think I was being callous about what you've been through. It's important."

Nobody has ever said that to him, except maybe Sam, who talks to vets all the time. To hear this from Steve … that means something. Bucky feels both humbled and exalted at the same time. He rests his cheek against Steve's hand on his shoulder. "Thank you."

Steve looks startled at the caress, but he doesn't pull his hand away. Bucky is like some wild creature that has come to trust tentatively and delicately. "You're welcome." Daring greatly, Steve kisses Bucky's knuckles. 

They sit like that for a moment, both quiet, before Bucky raises his cheek from Steve's hand. He doesn't know why he did that, or why Steve didn't pull away from him like he was hot coal. He can still feel the warmth of Steve's lips on his skin. 

Then his phone rings. It's just Jane asking if she and Darcy can change shifts on Monday. It's fine with him, but the spell is broken. Steve gets up from the couch and uses Bucky's kitchen shears to cut out the small profile. He hands it to Bucky.

"From me to you."

Bucky takes the picture. He smiles as he looks at it again. "You've made one mistake."

"What?"

"I'm not that good-looking."

Steve wants to say that to his eyes, Bucky is exactly as he drew him. Instead, he grins and replies, "Artistic license."

Bucky slings an affectionate arm over his shoulder. "Let's get ice cream."

"It's like zero degrees outside," Steve objects. 

"It's never too cold for ice cream. C'mon, punk."

Steve, enchanted by Bucky's mood, gets his coat. He's so in love with this boy right now, he'd let himself be buried in the Arctic if that's what he wanted. 

**TBC**


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve starts work at Natasha's bakery. Bucky has an idea of how to help Steve, and Steve has an idea of how to help Bucky. Comfort ensues.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Look! Chapter 3! And there will be a Chapter Four. I might even have a plot going on. :-)

After a lazy Sunday spent doing laundry — Bucky manages to get around Steve's objections over paying for laundry by washing his own clothes in the same loads. "I have credits on my account," he explains and Steve really can't argue the point without being an ingrate. 

Bucky orders pizza from the shop across the street and they watch _Pacific Rim_ , arguing amiably about why they needed to build giant robots to fight giant aliens. "Because it's cool," Bucky grins. 

"It's ridiculous," Steve insists, elbowing Bucky in the ribs. 

"Yeah, but still cool." Bucky shoves back and when the movie is over, they have blueberry muffins and chocolate milk, and go to bed. "Big day tomorrow," Bucky reminds him quietly before he says goodnight. "You feel okay?"

"Yeah, I'm good. Nervous, but okay." Bucky opens his bedroom door, and Steve taps his shoulder. "Thanks, Bucky. I hope I don't let you down."

"You won't."

Steve wishes he felt that confident, but he tries to calm his nerves and keep his breathing steady until, to his surprise, he falls asleep. He sleeps until 5am, when his eyes pop open and refuse to stay shut. He'd planned to wake up at six anyway. He gets up, starts the coffee maker and frowns at his less than inspiring wardrobe. 

Bucky peers over his shoulder, looking adorably rumpled and sleep-flushed. "Couldn't sleep?"

"I'm a little nervous," Steve admits. "What should I wear?"

"One good thing about the job is you don't need a fancy wardrobe. Jeans, t-shirt — pretty much whatever you feel like as long as it's not obscene, torn or stained." 

Steve nods and takes a deep breath. "Okay."

"Cool. Give me time to shower, caffeinate, and dress." He grips Steve's shoulder. "You'll be fine. Natasha is gonna love you."

^*^*^*^*^*^*^  
Bucky remembers his first encounter with Natasha. He had been sleeping in her alley; and unlike Steve, he had looked like a homeless person; lank, long hair, bearded, and just clean enough that she didn't immediately call the police. Several days later, he found himself invited inside, fed, and put to work bussing tables and taking out the trash. When he asked her why she trusted him like that, she shrugged. "Your fatigues."

"I could have got them second-hand. I could have been a real nut-job instead of being what I am."

She had rolled her eyes, "Give me some credit. Besides, it's not good for business, having a homeless guy camping on my doorstep." She had looked at him with those unreadable eyes. "What are you, exactly?"

"Before my convoy ran afoul of an IED, I was a sniper. I could shoot the eye out of a Taliban at a thousand yards. I had fifty kills on my record."

"I saw the towers fall. You think I should be bothered by what you did?" 

"Some people call what I did, murder."

"I'm not some people." She gave him a hundred dollars, told him to go to St. Malachi's for a shower, buy new clothes and she'll have some paid work for him. 

^*^*^*^*^*^*^

"Bucky? Earth to Bucky Barnes." Steve leans in, not too close so as not to alarm him. "You with me?"

Bucky blinks. "Yeah, yeah. I'm good." He finishes his coffee. "Let's get a move on. Natasha hates it when I'm late."

They walk quickly to the bakery and Bucky opens the alley door with his key. "Natasha, I'm here with the new barista," he calls out and a moment later the door to the tiny office opens. "You're late."

"Your clock is fast," Bucky grins. "Natasha Romanov, Steve Rogers. Steve, this is Natasha, our boss lady." 

Natasha is gorgeous and fierce, She's looking at him like a tiger eyes fresh prey. Steve can feel his tongue sticking to the roof of his mouth. He holds out his hand, hoping that it doesn't feel like a cold fish. He's grateful for Bucky's warm shoulder against his. "Thank you for giving me a chance, Ms. Romanov."

"Call me Natasha. Jane will get you an apron and start training you on the coffee makers. You'll be doing the simple orders. Black coffee, syrups, milks. Tomorrow, we'll get you on the register, too." She raises a brow. "Have you worked retail?"

Steve nods, happy that there's something positive he can tell her. "Yes. At an art supply store and the college bookstore. I know how to make change, and count down a register. Use a credit card reader." 

"Bucky does the register most of the time, but even he needs a break." Natasha gives Bucky a fond look and he rolls his eyes. "Jane's out front. She's expecting you." 

Steve takes that as his cue to leave. Natasha turns to Bucky, shaking her head. "He'll need a step ladder to reach those urns," she says. 

"So does Jane," Bucky counters. "He's smart and he's got muscles. He can do the work." 

Natasha's right eyebrow flies up. "You noticed his muscles?"

Bucky gives her a wry smile. "I'm only human." 

"Well, that's a first," she smirks at him. 

"Give him a chance, Natasha. You gave me one."

"Two weeks."

"Two weeks and he gets paid each week."

"The bookkeeping is your problem," Natasha turns on her heel and returns to the office. Bucky snags his apron from a hook and goes out to the front of the house to see what pastries he'll need to put out for the day. 

Bucky's seen worse morning rushes, but he had hoped that this one would be less insane to give Steve time to get used to the pace. He shouldn't have worried. After two minor mix-ups with orders, Steve seems to find the rhythm of the place and he and Jane work easily together while Bucky runs the register. When things finally die down around ten, Jane gives Steve a high-five. 

"Way to go, newbie. We make a pretty good team."

Bucky hides his smile. Jane is notoriously shy. To have her accept Steve so easily is a good sign. Natasha is leaning against the entrance to the kitchen, she gives a quick nod to Bucky, indicating that she wants to talk to him. 

"Okay, he's hired. Full time starting now. You were right." Bucky grins at her. "Don't just stand there, Barnes. Go tell your protege." 

"Not my protege." He says over his shoulder. "And not my boyfriend, either."

"Ha-ha. I'll wait for the formal announcement." Bucky just throws his hand up in despair and hopes he's not blushing.

Steve is leaning against the counter drinking down a bottle of water. He's flushed and his hair is ruffled, and he's looking at the front door as if it will suddenly open and spew forth a tide of customers all demanding coffee. 

"Is it always like this?" he asks breathlessly.

"I ain't gonna lie, sometimes it's worse. Tomorrow and Wednesday will be easier, Thursday is usually quiet, then it gets busy again on Friday as people need their fix to get through to the weekend. There'll be another rush around 3pm, but not like this morning. In between we clean the urns, mop the floors, count the money and re-stock the pastry trays. And take our breaks." 

"Nice to know," Steve sounds a little overwhelmed. "What now?"

"Break. Pick out a muffin or something. You want coffee?"

"Umm. No." Steve collapses into a chair. "Water is fine." Bucky gives him another bottle of water and brings two corn muffins with cheddar and jalapeño. 

"Trust me. You'll love it," he says when Steve gives him a look. He's gratified when Steve's eyes widen in pleased surprise. "Natasha wants to offer you a full time job."

Steve nearly chokes. "Seriously? After one shift?"

"She likes what she sees, and she trusts Jane and me to let her know if somebody isn't going to work out. So, do you want the job?"

"Yeah, I mean yes! Absolutely. The sooner I start the sooner I'll be able to get out of your place and on my own."

Bucky tries for humor despite the little pain below his heart. "It's been that bad?"

Steve is instantly contrite. "Gosh, no! That's not what I meant. You've gotta want your space back, Bucky."

"There's no rush."

"I'm taking up all your room," Steve argues.

Bucky wants to say that he's not taking up room; he's filling the empty space in Bucky's life. Having Steve around has grounded him in a way that nothing else has for too long. However, telling Steve that isn't fair, it isn't right. It's nothing but selfish. He takes a deep breath. 

"I lived in a tent with five other guys. Sharing a decent apartment with one isn't a hardship. Stay until you've saved up enough for a deposit and a month's rent, okay?"

Steve nods. "Okay, but if I start pissing you off, tell me and I'll get a room at the Y or something."

"Ain't gonna happen, punk." Bucky punches Steve lightly on the shoulder, his throat aching just a bit. "C'mon, I'll show you how to set up for the afternoon rush."

^*^*^*^*^*^*^

Phil Coulson is one of Natasha's regulars. They seem to have a history of some sort, which Natasha declines to elaborate on, and Phil just gives an enigmatic smile when the subject is broached. Now, he's an ADA, but he looks like an accountant and carries himself like a soldier. He comes in every afternoon at three where he meets up with his partner, Clint Barton, who is the archery coach at the local community college. Like Bucky, Clint had been a special ops sniper until a knee injury put an end to his military career. Unlike Bucky, he seems to have escaped with a minimum of PTSD, or maybe he was just lucky to have somebody like Phil to calm and soothe him when he needed it.

Today, Phil comes in alone. He gives Steve his usual order; coffee with cream and a single shot of hazelnut syrup, then sits at his usual table. He looks up when Bucky approaches him with an apple muffin on a plate. "You only bring food when you need a favor, Barnes."

"Guilty as charged."

His eyes flick to Steve. "I see you have a new employee."

Bucky pulls out the chair across from Coulson. He settles easily. He likes Phil, who has never treated him like he's different or helpless due to his disability. "Thanks to our loyal customers we needed the help. Speaking of loyal customers, where's Clint?"

"He took some of his students to an archery tournament in Philadelphia. He'll be overnight, so I'm working late."

"I have a question."

"Of course you do." Phil smiles. "Legal?"

"Yeah. The new barista, Steve? He's an artist. He had a gallery show with a guy who was nothing more than a con man. He set Steve up, then took off with his money and his paintings. I found Steve sleeping in the alley. This jerk pretty much destroyed his life."

"How can I help?"

"Have you heard of any other cases like that? I figured this isn't a one-time con."

"Nothing has come across my desk, but call Detective Sitwell. He may have heard something." Phil pulls out Sitwell's card and hands it to Bucky. "Take care of your barista. He looks like a strong wind would blow him away."

To his chagrin, Bucky blushes. "He's tougher than he looks. Tell Clint I said 'hi'." 

"I will." Phil glances at his phone, which has been chiming steadily. "Better pack up the muffin to go. When the DA says jump, I don't ask how high."

"Thanks, Phil. I'll talk to Sitwell." 

Bucky wipes down a few tables and re-stocks the creamers and napkins. He watches Steve fill the urns and measure out the coffee. He admires the view of Steve's trim body briefly before the door opens and the afternoon rush starts.

^*^*^*^*^*^*^  
By the end of the day, Steve is nearly shaking with exhaustion, but he's also happier and more hopeful than he's been in a long time. Bucky looks tired; his eyes shadowed and his shoulders hunched. Steve has been around him long enough to recognize that as a sign of pain. It has to be difficult, doing what Bucky does with one arm. No wonder he hurts. 

"What?" Bucky looks up from the cash drawer he's counting down. "I know I'm a mess."

"N-no, it's not that. Just wondering when we can close up. It's been a long day."

Bucky fills out a few fields on the spreadsheet displayed on Natasha's computer. "As soon as I finish entering the receipts." He types more figures, prints out several pages, puts them on Natasha's desk, then locks the cash drawer in the safe. "Done. Ready to get outta here?"

"I was only waiting for you," Steve says. He takes off his apron. "What do I do with this?"

"There's a laundry bin in the hall. They deliver clean aprons and towels twice a week. Man, I'm beat," he admits, rotating his good arm. Steve hands him his coat, noticing how stiffly Bucky maneuvers the sleeve over his shoulder. He wishes he could offer help, but he hesitates, knowing that Bucky's pride won't accept aid in that simple task.

Steve puts his own coat on slowly, not wanting to make Bucky feel awkward. They walk home, stopping at the deli for soup and thick turkey sandwiches. When they get to the apartment, Steve passes the parcel to Bucky and holds out his hand for the key. 

"In my pocket." 

Steve reaches in and takes the keyring from Bucky's coat pocket. He opens the door and lets Bucky inside first, then closes the door and locks the deadbolt. 

Bucky puts the sandwiches and the container of soup on the counter. He's about to get plates and bowls, when Steve stops him. "Go, sit. I'll bring the stuff out."

"I'm fine."

"Jesus, Buck, you're out on your feet. Let me do this little thing for you."

Bucky doesn't even argue, which makes Steve even more concerned. He brings the food out and turns on the TV. An entertainment news program is on. It's annoying, all about worthless rich people who don't even have the talent to be called actors. He surfs to the Food Channel and he and Bucky eat in near silence as Guy Fieri talks about Diners, Drive-ins, and Dives.

"You should get him to visit Natasha's," Steve says, his eyes glinting with laughter.

"Yeah, sure. I'll get Natasha right on it while you write Guy's obituary." Bucky slumps into the cushions. "Man, I don't think I can move."

Steve looks at his hands. They've always seemed too big for his small frame, but they're strong and he has an idea of how to help Bucky. His heart pounds because what he's about to suggest could send Bucky right out of the apartment. He gathers his courage. "I was thinking. I know a little bit about massage therapy. If you don't mind, it might help."

"So, are you a licensed masseur as well as an artist?"

"Not licensed. My mom had cancer. It was in her spine and she had a lot of pain, but she didn't want to take too many drugs. The doctors said massage would help, so I took some classes. I think it could help you, too."

Bucky gives him a sidelong look. His eyes are wide and a little spooked. "Umm, okay?"

Steve hesitates a moment. "Take your shirt off. Just the henley — nothing more if you're uncomfortable."

Bucky nods. He lets Steve pull the long-sleeved shirt over his head. He's wearing a plain t-shirt underneath it, the short sleeve hanging empty over what's left of his arm. Steve sets his hands lightly on Bucky's shoulders. "If I hurt you —"

"You won't."

Steve starts working on the trapezius muscles. He can feel the knots of tension. He presses harder and Bucky groans softly. "You okay?"

"Yeah. Don't … stop," he breathes.

Steve keeps working on the knots in Bucky's neck. When Bucky's shoulders relax, he pauses. "Lie down?"

Bucky does, face-down on the couch and Steve starts on his mid and lower back, then works his way back up to Bucky's shoulders, being cautious around his stump. He can see how beautiful Bucky's body is; he can feel the graceful lie of his muscles over his bones, and his throat aches for how cruelly he's been hurt. 

Bucky sighs. "You could make a living doing that."

Steve blushes and is grateful that Bucky is face-down and can't see how much Steve wants to slide his hands under the thin t-shirt and run his hands over the silky skin. He wants to explore all of Bucky's body. He wants to draw him, to show the world that beauty doesn't necessarily have to be flawless. 

Instead, he's acutely aware that he's straddling Bucky's body and if he doesn't move, he's going to have a spectacular boner. He kneels at the side of the couch. "Umm, that's about it. Do you feel better?"

"I feel like a puddle of melting jello." Bucky opens his eyes and smiles sleepily. "I don't want to move."

"Then, don't." Steve pulls the blanket from the back of the couch and arranges it over Bucky, then curls up at the opposite end of the sofa. They both fall asleep to the drone of the TV. 

**TBC**


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bucky has a nightmare. Steve is hired full-time at Natasha's, and Bucky takes the initiative to help Steve get his art and his money back from the con artist. Coulson and Sitwell (always a good guy in my mind) are on the case.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry about the length of time between chapters. I've had some RL stuff to deal with, and a wonderful Con to go to last weekend. So, a mix of good things and bad, but writing wasn't uppermost on my agenda. I hope to post more regularly. 
> 
> I've tried to catch errors, but my brain insists on seeing what it wants to see and not what it really should see!

Chapter 4

The stresses of the last weeks and the time he spent caring for his dying mother have left Steve a light sleeper. It took him a few days to acclimate to the noises in Bucky's apartment: the guy upstairs walking around, the squeak of the lobby door, the occasional voices of people walking down the stairs as they head to the laundry room. Those aren't what wakes him. 

He's jolted from sleep by a sound he didn't think another human being could make — some utterance between a sob and a whine, rough and pained and nearly inhuman in its grief and loss. 

He bolts upright, his chest constricting in a pre-asthmatic spasm, not even sure where the sound is coming from. Then he realizes it's Bucky, shaking at the other end of the sofa, who is making those horrible sounds. Steve reaches for his inhaler for a quick hit of bronchodilator, then pauses, because he doesn't know what to do. He's aware that Bucky could hurt him badly, he could _kill_ him, but Steve is nothing, if not brave. He stays away from Bucky, and speaks clearly and sharply. "Bucky! Barnes — C'mon, ya gotta wake up and listen to me. I'm not going to touch you, but you have to wake up. You're having a dream. That's all it is. A dream. You're safe. You're in your own apartment. Nothing can hurt you here." 

It takes several repetitions before the words seem to penetrate the darkness of the dream. Bucky draws a harsh breath and sits up. His chest is heaving and Steve can see his heart hammering so hard in his chest that it shakes him. His eyes are still unfocused, but he's struggling towards awareness. "Bucky? It's Steve. You're safe. You're in your own apartment. Buck? Please wake up. C'mon, you're scaring the crap out of me."

Bucky's eyes are red-rimmed with tears, but they're starting to focus. His harsh breathing slows and he struggles to regain his composure. Moving slowly, Steve gets up and fills a glass with cold water. He carries it over to Bucky. He's shivering as his sweat starts cooling on his body. Steve wraps the afghan around Bucky's shoulders. "Here, drink some water. Just small sips." His hand makes soothing circles on Bucky's back. "You're okay."

Bucky shakes his head, then suddenly makes a bolt for the bathroom. Steve hears him retching and thinks he's losing everything he'd eater for dinner and then some. There's some ginger ale in the refrigerator, and Steve pours it into Bucky's glass and carries it into the bathroom. Bucky is leaning against the tub. He's _so_ pale. His lips are white; just the shadows under his eyes and the long dark lashes closed on his cheeks have any color. 

"Here, take a sip. Just a little one."

Bucky obeys and Steve slides his arm around his shoulders. Bucky's about twice the width of Steve, but he huddles into Steve's body, seeking warmth until he finally stops shivering. He takes a few more sips of ginger ale and he keeps it down. 

"Thank you," he whispers. 

"Nah, it's good." He pauses and takes a breath. "Do you have those nightmares often?"

Bucky gives him a faint smile. "More than I'd like. This one was one of the worst. I'm sorry."

"Geez, don't apologize for something you can't help."

Bucky ducks his head, letting the curtain of dark hair fall forward. "I hate it. I feel like such a coward."

"You? Never." Steve's hand traces soothing circles on his back. "C'mon. You need to sleep."

"I usually don't after one of those dreams."

"How about if I stay with you? Will you let me do that for you?"

Bucky nods, his shoulders hunched. "Okay," he whispers. Steve uses his shoulder to help Bucky stand up and they walk slowly to the bedroom. Bucky collapses on his bed, curled up around his pillow. Steve gets in beside him. 

"Buck, is this all right?"

Bucky nods. "Closer." His hand captures Steve's. Steve slides carefully down so that he's spooning Bucky's body. His skin is still too cool, and Steve wonders if he's got enough warmth to help. "I'll be right back. I'm going to get the afghan from the couch, okay?" 

He hates leaving, but he gathers up the afghan and returns to the bedroom, spreading it over them both, then curls up, daring to slide his arm around Bucky's waist. "Goodnight," he whispers, but Bucky doesn't move, already sunk in exhausted slumber. 

^*^*^*^*^*^*^

Bucky wakes at first light. He's warm, comfortable, and he's not alone in his bed. He isn't disoriented. He knows it's Steve breathing lightly next to him. He remembers everything — the nightmare, how cold he was, how gently Steve took care of him. There hasn't been a lot of that recently in Bucky's life. Sure, the nurses in the hospital had taken care of him, but he wasn't dumb enough to think they were being that way just because he fluttered his eyelashes at them. 

He slowly pulls away from Steve. He's out. It's not easy taking care of a one-armed traumatized vet. But he did it for no reason other than kindness. He looks down at Steve's narrow face with it's ridiculously long eyelashes and soft mouth. It's not a feminine face; his nose is crooked, like he broke it in a fight. His chin is stubborn even in sleep, and the morning sun lightens his stubble to gold dust. He's gorgeous, even if he'd laugh at Bucky for thinking so. 

Having a nightmare is no excuse to call off work. Moving carefully, he gets out of bed and pulls the covers close to Steve so he won't miss the warmth. He'll start coffee, shower, and by then Steve will be awake. 

Steve is hunched over his coffee when Bucky emerges from the bathroom. "Good morning," he says and Steve looks up and smiles. 

"Hey."

"Your turn. I'll make breakfast."

"Are cereal and milk in your culinary comfort zone?" Steve snarks. 

"You are such a punk," Bucky flicks water from his hair. "I think I can manage it." He sets out two boxes of cereal; one disgustingly sweet and the other slightly more healthy. He pours himself a bowl of the healthier stuff, which tastes like toasted twigs and nuts, but he's promised Sam to take care of himself. 

Steve comes out wearing jeans and the new shirt, which turns his eyes an amazing shade of turquoise. Bucky tries not to stare, but Steve notices and blushes. "What? Do I have a tag sticking out or something?"

"No … it's just a nice shirt. Looks good on you."

"Think I'll bring in more tips?"

Bucky gives a bitten-off laugh. "Yeah, we'll compare at the end of the day. See how a gimp rates compared to the cool guy in the nice shirt."

"Don't to that."

"What?"

"Call yourself a gimp. It's not what you are." Steve's mouth his stubborn and his chin is jutting out at a pugnacious angle.

Bucky blinks at him. "Umm, I was joking."

Steve shakes his head. "You weren't." 

"Fuck off, Rogers. You don't get to decide what I am. I've been looking at myself for two years and I know what I see."

"You're just full of pity this morning," Steve's temper is acidic. "You know what I see? I great-looking guy with amazing eyes and a gorgeous smile whose got more going for him with one arm than a skinny art geek like me could ever have on his best day."

"Is this a game to see who gets to have the biggest pity party?"

Steve suddenly spews milk. "Oh, my God. You did not just say that!" He laughs so hard that he nearly chokes. Bucky, after a stunned moment, joins in. 

"Yeah, I did. Blame it on my sister, Becca."

Steve picks up on the least expected part of that retort. "Your sister?"

Bucky smiles. "Yeah. She lives in California. She's divorced, with two kids and an ex who tries to weasel out of child support whenever he can. We don't talk much and I don't want to burden her."

"Does she know about your arm?"

Bucky looks at him. "Well, yeah. It's not the sort of thing you just spring on your family out of the blue."

"Okay, then."

Bucky decides it's not worth arguing over. He smiles. "That shirt really does look great on you," he says sincerely, and makes Steve blush even more. 

"Let's go to work," Steve says, too flustered to meet Bucky's appreciative gaze. 

Bucky knows that sooner or later one of them is going to have to be brave enough to make a move on the other. He's pretty damn sure that the attraction between them in mutual, and approaching the combustible, at least on his part. If he's not careful Natasha and Darcy will start placing bets on when their resistance will melt. 

^*^*^*^*^*^*^

Work is its usual insanity in the morning, but Steve is starting to feel he can handle the regular orders. He finished the last customer in line and asks Bucky when he can start on the espresso/cappuccino orders. 

"Feeling pretty confident?" Bucky asks.

"Yeah. Yeah, I think I can handle it. Don't you think I can?"

"Sure, I do. The sooner the better, if you ask me." He rubs his forehead where a niggling little pain has become entrenched. Given half a chance it will blossom into a full-grown headache. 

Steve tries not to look concerned, but there are dark circles under Bucky's eyes and his lips are pale. He looks like he's ready to drop. Steve knows telling him that won't do a thing. "You ready for a break?" he asks instead.

"Yeah. Brew up some of that green tea chai. My stomach is still kind of touchy." It's as close as he'll come to admit that he feels like crap. Steve knows him well enough to see that.

He's poured the tea and is about to get a muffin for Bucky when Natasha emerges from the office. "Steve, I have a few more papers to fill out for taxes." She gestures towards the office. 

Bucky gives him a wan smile. "Don't keep Natasha waiting."

Steve sets the muffin on Bucky's table and goes into the office. "Is something wrong?" he asks Natasha, because he's pretty sure he's filled out all the paperwork the government needs from a poverty-stricken, under-employed artist who doesn't even make much in tips … yet.

Natasha smiles at him, like that will allay his fears. "No, in fact, there really aren't more papers. I just wanted an excuse to talk to you without James following you in here like a mother hen."

Steve snorts, "He's hardly that."

Natasha tilts her head. "You don't think so?"

"Well, maybe a little. But there's more you want to say, I guess."

"Sit down," she invites. "He looks like he's had a rough night." Her green eyes are sharp and assessing. 

Steve doesn't want to betray Bucky, but he can't lie to Natasha. "He had a really bad nightmare — more like a night terror. It took him a while to come down from it."

"What did you do?"

He shrugs. "I did what I could. I talked to him until he came out of it. He got sick to his stomach, so I gave him some ginger ale. And I …" He feels his cheeks flush. "I stayed with him the rest of the night." He looks doubtfully at Natasha. "I did my best."

"You did everything right. Thank you." Her eyes soften. "He needs a friend. He doesn't let many people in, and God knows somebody has to take care of him, because he's hopeless at taking care of himself. Please tell me you'll stay with him."

"I need time to save up enough for my own place," Steve says doubtfully. "I'll stay until he kicks me out."

"He won't. He'll keep on hoping that you'll stay longer, because even though he won't admit it, he's been lonely — terribly lonely. I'm his boss, I can only do so much."

"If I wear out my welcome, I'll have to go," he replies evenly. "I can't stay if he asks me to leave."

She sighs. "Let me know if that happens."

"I will. I like him a lot, Natasha. Probably more than I should. I don't have a lot of friends, either." He doesn't know where the hell he lost his self-censoring ability. He can't look her in they eyes and he _knows_ she can see down to the bottom of his heart. Which, by the way, seems to have been hijacked by a one-armed assassin named Barnes. 

She holds out her hand. "You have more than you realize." She clasps his lightly. "Thank you."

Bemused, Steve leaves the office and pours himself a cup of coffee. He sits with Bucky. "All official." he explains when Bucky raises a brow at him. 

"I told you so." Bucky's smile, despite his weariness is warm and charming. Steve's heart gives a little jolt in his chest. He won't leave unless Bucky tosses him out the door and locks it behind him, and even then, he might just camp out on the doorstep and beg Bucky to take him back. 

^*^*^*^*^*^*^

At 3pm, a short, muscular man with a shaved head and glasses comes up to the counter and hands his business card to Bucky. "Detective Sitwell. Coulson said you wanted to talk to me about a con artist running an art gallery scam?"

"Yeah. Have you got time now?"

Sitwell looks around the bakery. At the moment, it's fairly quiet. "I have about ten minutes. And I'd like coffee and one of those Russian tea cakes."

Bucky pours a large cup and heats up a tea cake in the microwave. Then he joins Sitwell at a quiet table in the corner. Sitwell sits back after inhaling half of the near-scalding cup of coffee. "So, art scam?"

"Yeah. This asshole pseudo-gallery owner finds hard-up artists, convinces them that he'll put on a show to sell their paintings. There's a glitzy opening, money changes hands, and when the artist comes back to pick up his money and unsold works, the gallery is closed, the money is stolen, and the art has disappeared."

Sitwell nods. "I've had three complaints similar to that in the last year. The front man claims to have the backing of Stark Industries to the artists."

Bucky nearly chokes. He knows about Stark Industries. Hell, he'd killed people using Stark weapons. He also knows that right around the time he was nearly blown to bits, by one of Stark's purloined missiles, that Stark had been kidnapped by terrorists, rescued, and then promptly shut down Stark Industries weapons division. Little consolation that was to Bucky who woke up missing an arm and a good part of his life. 

"Claims to?" he managed to grate out, and hopes he doesn't sound too bitter. 

Sitwell keeps talking as if he hadn't noticed Bucky having a minor breakdown across the table from him. "Stark absolutely denies the connection, but I have my suspicions about who's behind it.." He tears off a small chunk of tea biscuit and chews it appreciatively. "My compliments to the baker. So, how did you hear about this scam?"

"Our new barista was one of the artists. He lost everything. His money, his works, his home. He was sleeping on the bakery doorstep."

"I'll need to talk to him."

"He's kind of … not shy, but not too high on himself right now. Give me a day to talk to him about this, okay?"

"A day gone is another day for this crook to take advantage of somebody else and get away with the artwork. Is your guy any good? I mean as an artist, not a barista."

Bucky smiles. "Yes. He's very good. At least as far as I can tell."

Sitwell nods. "Then he's got more to lose. This guy preys on desperate people and leaves them in even more desperate circumstances."

"We'll be in touch." Bucky holds out his hand. He can tell the moment Sitwell notices his arm. Sitwell nods sympathetically, but doesn't say anything before he drains his coffee and wraps the remainder of his biscuit to go.

^*^*^*^*^*^*^  
The rest of the afternoon is too busy for Bucky to talk to Steve. Not that he has a clue how to broach the subject. Steve hasn't said a word for days. He seems more concerned about the new job, Bucky guesses; not willing to admit that he's playing a role in Steve's avoidance. He's carting around enough guilt as it is. 

They pick up a pizza on the way home, both of them too exhausted to think about cooking. Bucky springs for beer and they trudge home in near silence. Once inside, Bucky heads to the medicine cabinet for ibuprofen while Steve takes care of plates and opening the beer. By the time the painkillers hit his system, and the beer washes away the last of his tension, he decides he needs to take the first step. 

Steve is curled up on the sofa. He looks tired, his fine-features a little too sharp, his eyes heavy, weighted by those ridiculous lashes. Bucky fails at being objective. 

Steve looks at him. "What?" he asks. "Have I got pizza sauce on my chin? I do, don't I?" He starts rubbing at his chin until Bucky laughs.

"No. You're fine. No sauce. I promise." 

"Why are you laughing?"

He can't say it's because he thinks Steve is adorable. "The expression on your face is so worth it."

"Barnes, you're a jerk."

"Yeah, so say you." He looks at Steve. "Listen, we need to talk." 

"You're kicking me out," Steve says flatly. "Fine. I'll be gone in the— "

"What? No! What on earth gave you that idea?" Bucky's head is spinning and he flops back against the cushions. "Geez, Steve, give me a chance to finish a damn sentence before you start jumping to conclusions, okay?"

"It's just that you looked so serious." Steve pauses and runs an agitated hand through his hair. "I'm sorry."

"Okay, so back to what I was going to say, and it is kind of serious. I, uh, a couple of days ago I asked one of our customers who's with the district attorney's office if he'd heard anything similar to the con that gallery owner pulled on you."

Steve's brows draw level. "And?" 

"He told me to talk to Detective Sitwell with the major crimes division of NYPD."

"C'mon, it's not a major crime —"

"It is when it happens to more than three people, apparently. It's on Sitwell's radar. He'd like to talk to you."

"You don't have to be my defender," Steve says. "I would have done something on my own."

"I know that, but Sitwell said that the sooner you act, the better the chances of catching this asshole before he pulls another, bigger con. So far he's stuck to small, lesser known artists, but what if that's just practice for a major sting?"

"Are you sure you weren't a lawyer in another life?" Steve asks, still with that frown/not frown on his face. He's not happy, clearly.

"No, but I had to assess risks and decide whether or not an op had a chance against superior forces. I was pretty good at it, too, until our sweepers missed a roadside IED."

Bucky keeps his voice steady, which takes a lot more effort than he expected. Sam would be proud that he's controlling his panic attacks when he thinks about what happened. Something of his strugglee must show, because Steve sighs.

"I'm sorry for being stubborn. My mom always said I had to get used to being on my own because she might not be around as long as she wanted to be. She told me I had to be strong."

"You _are_ strong, but nobody can carry everything alone."

"Does that include you?" 

Steve's perception actually _hurts_. Bucky takes the coward's way out. "I need another beer." He gets up from the couch, not wanting to talk about his problems when Steve's are much more immediate. "This isn't about me."

"Keep telling yourself that."

Bucky sighs inwardly. "I will," he calls over his shoulder. "Do you want another beer?"

"No, and don't laugh. I know I'm a lightweight when it comes to drinking."

"I'm not laughing. This isn't about my problems. It's about that asshole who ripped you off. " He sits down, his beer held loosely in his hands. 

"I'll talk to Detective Sitwell," Steve concedes after too long a silence. 

Buck nods. "He's a good cop. He'll do his best to get back what is yours, and if he can't, he'll still find out who's guilty and put him behind bars."

Steve wouldn't do it for himself, but Bucky's figured that out. Steve will do it to keep it from happening to somebody else. That's Steve. That's why Bucky is more than half in love with him. 

_TBC_


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bucky has a bad day. Fortunately Steve and Sam are there to help. Also, Steve talks to Jasper Sitwell about the gallery scam, and hints of the villain are revealed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whoa! This turned out way more angsty than I expected it to be. Mentions of violence and torture (nothing graphic), references to Bucky's injury and amputation Warning for an episode of PTSD and a panic attack. Be aware. Sam is a good bro, Sitwell hates technology and bonds with Steve.

There's a knot of dread in Steve's stomach as he and Bucky walk to work the next morning. Bucky is silent, too. The cold weather is hitting him hard and Steve wishes he could wrap himself around Bucky like he and the other night. He doesn't say anything, though, and finally Bucky breaks the silence. 

"You're worried about talking to Sitwell?"

Steve sighs. "I don't know how helpful I can be."

"Let the detective be the judge of that. He's the one putting the puzzle together. What you tell him could be the last piece of the puzzle."

"Or not."

Bucky stops in his tracks and takes Steve's shoulder. "Listen to me. You're not alone in this, okay?"

He's so earnest, so serious that Steve has to blink away his tears. "It's kind of hard when I've been on my own for a long time. My mom …"

"She'd want you do to this. I didn't know her, but I know you, and you're not going let anybody down. Not yourself, not anybody else. Got it?"

Steve nods and his chin juts out which makes Bucky smile. _God, that smile._ Steve can't look away. "Thanks," he says inadequately. "C'mon, we'll be late if we don't step up the pace here."

The breakfast rush is crazy. By the time it slows, Bucky is starting to shake. He drops a cup, and the crack of china nearly sends him into a panic attack. Steve can see it happening; can see the moment that Bucky's eyes go black and wide. Steve gives his last order to Jane, with a quick whispered, "I've got to get Bucky out of here."

Jane, wide-eyed, nods. She's seen Bucky in a panic, and she doesn't think she'll forget it soon. Steve takes Bucky's elbow, "Let's get out of here. Get some fresh air." He nearly drags Bucky out the alley door. The cold hits like a slap in the face and Steve can feel his lungs start to spasm. He can't have an asthma attack now. He forces himself to breathe slowly, to give the air time to warm, while keeping a firm hold on Bucky's arm. He talks about the morning, about the weather, about Jane's smitten daily customer — a huge blond dude who shows up faithfully at 9am, who sits quietly with his laptop in at the corner table and stays exactly for thirty minutes before he leaves for work. They all find it extremely incongruous that he works in the history department of the NYPL. 

Bucky starts shivering, whether from cold or from the adrenaline crash, Steve doesn't know. He looks into Bucky's wide eyes. "Blink, okay?"

Bucky does, then seems to come back. "Steve?"

"Yeah. You've had a rough morning."

"Shit." Bucky runs a hand over his forehead. "I'm sorry. I'm so fucked." He sinks down on the stoop, and wraps his arms around his body, looking small and lost. 

He has always seemed so strong, so in-control, so sure of what needs to be done. Steve crouches next to him. "Come inside, Buck. It's freezing out here." He holds out his hand. Bucky takes it and Steve pulls him up with an effort. He slings his arm around Bucky's waist and they go back inside. Natasha's office is empty since it's her day off. Steve settles Bucky into the chair. 

"You need something hot to drink. I'll be right back." Steve looks over the selection of herbal teas and picks out a honeybush and roibos blend. He steeps it, adds some honey and tells Jane that Bucky's okay, but he's going to try to convince him to go home. 

Bucky's head is down on the desk, but he looks up when Steve puts the mug in front of him. "Thanks."

"You should go home. Jane and I will be fine until Darcy and the college kids come in. It's pretty quiet out there."

Bucky shakes his head. "I'll stay here and do some paperwork." His mouth takes on a stubborn set. "I'll be okay back here."

Steve sighs. "Is there somebody I can call? Natasha?"

"No! Not Natasha. And I don't want you taking this on, Steve. I'll call my counselor, okay?"

Steve stands there, his hands on his hips. "Call him now."

Bucky knows Steve is right. He knows Sam will be here in ten minutes, if he calls him. He reaches for the phone and pauses. "I'll call him later —"

"No. You'll call him now. Bucky, you need help. You talk a good game, but you're in trouble."

Bucky doesn't know if he should be angry or laugh. Steve looks so serious, so stubborn and determined; his brows drawn level and that chin jutting out. "Why do you care?" The words are out before he can stop them. 

Steve blinks at him. "Why do I care? Geez, Buck. You saved my life. Isn't this the least I can do?"

Bucky wipes his eyes with the back of his hand, not ashamed, or maybe just too tired to be embarrassed in front of Steve. "Detective Sitwell …" His voice cracks.

"I'll talk to him. Bucky, I can do this myself. You take care of yourself. I'll take care of my problems."

Bucky hand lies open and vulnerable on Natasha's desk. Steve slips his hand in Bucky's. His fingers curl around Steve's. They sit like that for a few minutes, with Steve's other hand stroking Bucky's dark hair, until Bucky sighs. "I'll call Sam."

"And I'll go out and help Jane until Sitwell shows up. Then we'll go home."

Bucky gives him a wan smile. "You are the most aggressively selfless punk I've ever met."

"Look in the mirror, you jerk." But the words have no sting as Steve gently tugs at a lock of Bucky's hair. 

Just then, Jane peers around the door. "Steve, there's a Detective Sitwell here to see you."

"I'll be out in a sec. Bucky, call Sam, please."

Bucky picks up the phone and starts dialing. "I'm calling, see?" Then as the call is picked up, "Yeah, Sam Wilson, please." 

^*^*^*^*^*^*^  
Detective Jasper Sitwell inhales coffee like it's mothers' milk, and eats one of Natasha's Russian tea cakes like it's manna from heaven. Steve sits quietly, nerves jumping in his stomach and sipping water to keep his mouth from going completely dry. 

When he's finished, Sitwell pulls a notebook out of his pocket. A _paper_ notebook with a blunt pencil tucked in the wire binding. Steve relaxes slightly. It's such an old-fashioned thing; an anachronism in this world of tablet phones, smart devices and laptops. Steve is no slouch when it comes to using technology to create art, but he didn't think anybody used pen and ink in a business, particularly not law enforcement in this age of terrorism and computer crimes. 

Sitwell notices him smiling. "What?"

"I'm a paper and pencil guy myself." 

"I hate computers," Sitwell admits, "And those damn phablets all the kids are carrying around are idiotic. Can't carry them in a pocket and with my luck some pickpocket would bump into me and walk away with my notes. The NYPD doesn't look kindly on that."

"I can imagine." Steve takes another sip of water. 

"So, the art gallery?"

"Right." Steve swallows. "Umm, this guy came to one of my art classes that I teach at the community center. He said he'd heard I was talented and that his boss was always looking for new and undiscovered artists, to give them exposure with a gallery showing. It sounded like an opportunity — maybe I'm dumb, or too trusting — but I agreed." 

Sitwell leans back in his chair. "Kid, this guy took advantage of people who were a lot older and more sophisticated than you, so don't be too hard on yourself." He opens the notebook and pulls out a folded paper. "Is this the man?"

Steve shakes his head. "No, I've never seen him before."

"Can you come down to the station to do an identi-kit?"

Steve shakes his head. "I can do better than that. I can draw a picture." He holds out his hand for Sitwell's notebook and pencil. The detective hands it over. He looks dubious. Steve has to stifle a smile as he draws. In five minutes, there is a picture nearly as good as a photograph. He shoves it over to Sitwell. "That's him."

Sitwell looks at it. "I'll have to run it through VICAP, maybe even Interpol databases." He stows the notebook away carefully. "You're good," he admits. "I don't suppose you'd consider a career in law enforcement?"

"Thanks, I think, but no."

"Did he give you his name?"

Steve takes out his woefully thin wallet and pulls out a business card. "He gave me this. He said his name was Benjamin Radlow."

Sitwell rubs a hand over his forehead. "Pierce Galleries, Inc.? That's familiar, but not the rep's name. I'll run it, but there's 99.9 percent probability that it's fake."

"I'm pretty sure I speak for all the artists when I say I just want my art back. Money would be nice, but the art is my soul."

Sitwell hold out his hand. "Thanks for talking to me. You've given us some new leads. I'll let you know what I find out. We'll get this guy, I promise." They shake hands, and Steve gives Sitwell a refill on the house before the detective heads out. 

Steve is exhausted. Two hours to go on this shift. He stands up wearily and heads towards the office to check on Bucky.

^*^*^*^*^*^*^  
Bucky nearly hangs up before the call is routed to Sam's office, but he thinks of Steve and he can't face the disappointment he knows he'll see no matter how accomplished a liar he is. He can lie to himself, but he can't lie to Steve, which when he considers he's known the guy for all of two weeks is pretty sad. So, he stays on the line until Sam answers his call.

"Hey, Barnes, what's up man? You doin' okay?"

"Can I come and see you?"

"Anytime, you know that. Today?"

"How late are you in the office?"

"Given the pile of paperwork that ain't gonna file itself, at least until seven."

"Can I come around five?"

"Sure thing. Just look behind the Mount Everest of files and you'll find me. Any clues about what's going on?"

Bucky gnaws at his lip. "The usual. I-I haven't been doing so well the last two days."

"I'll be here," Sam promises. 

"I - I … Thanks. See you later." Bucky hangs up. His hand is shaking; he realizes he hasn't eaten since breakfast and his blood sugar is tanking. He pushes himself to his feet and takes two wobbly steps towards the front of the store. He nearly stumbles into Steve, who is rounding the corner with a cup of coffee and two cinnamon streusel muffins. 

Steve manages not to drop the plate. "You've got to be hungry." He sets the plate and mug down on the desk. "You don't look so hot."

"Not eating does that to me." He sits at the desk and picks up one of the muffins. "You're a lifesaver." 

"So, you talked to Sam?"

"I'm going to see him after work."

"Do you want me to come with you? I mean, not to sit in on your session, just to wait until you're done?"

Bucky takes a deep breath. "Sure. Thanks." He finishes his muffin and drinks a big glass of water, foregoing caffeine, which will only make his shakes worse. "Let's finish up and get out of here."

^*^*^*^*^*^*^

Sam Wilson is a compact handsome man with brown eyes and a ready smile. He looks surprised to see Steve trailing a few steps behind Bucky. "Hey, man. Good to see you." He takes Bucky's hand, "But I gotta say you look like ten miles of bad road."

"Thanks, Sam. That makes me feel so much better." He turns to Steve. "Umm, Steve, this is Sam Wilson. Sam, Steve Rogers."

Steve shakes Sam's hand. "Nice to meet you, sir."

"The boy's got manners, but don't you call me 'sir'. I'm out of that business. Now I'm just plain old Sam Wilson."

Bucky rolls his eyes at Steve. "Don't listen to him. He's the backbone of this place and between him and Natasha, they pretty much saved my life."

"We just gave you a hand up. Don't sell yourself short. You ready to come in?"

Steve looks around at the office. There's not much room between the files on chairs and a cluttered desk. "I'll just… is there a cafeteria here?"

"Down the hall to the left. The coffee and tea won't kill you, but stay away from everything else but the chocolate chip cookies unless you're used to Army grub."

"Got it. See you in an hour?" He asks Bucky, not sure how this all works. 

"Yeah. If I finish earlier I'll find you."

Bucky watches Steve out the door, and Sam asks. "So, new friend?" Bucky doesn't know how to answer that, and Sam knows him well enough to be gentle with his enquiries. He clears off the chair he knows Bucky likes, an armchair with deep cushions and wings that he can huddle into.

Sam takes another tack. "What's happening with you? You look tired." It's an understatement, and Bucky gives a soft snort.

"Yeah, I haven't been sleeping too well, and I-I - had a panic attack." 

"You understand that's nothing to be ashamed of, that after what you've been through it's pretty typical?"

Bucky's eyes are focused on the toes of his shoes. He nods. "My brain says that, but apparently it forgot to tell my body."

"None of this is your fault." Sam says softly. "You need to understand that there's nothing shameful about what happened to you. You didn't do anything to deserve what happened — you didn't lose your arm as a punishment for your soldiers who died. The Taliban set the IED, they're the ones who massacred the survivors, they're the ones who left you to die — slowly and painfully of blood loss and thirst." 

Bucky's pale face is taut with misery. "Why can't … why can't I let it go?"

"Maybe because you're aware every moment of the day that you've lost a part of yourself that you will never get back. And you know what? That's okay. It sucks, but we can work with that."

"It's been two fucking _years!_ " Bucky exclaims. "What the fuck is wrong with me?"

"Bingo."

Buck looks at him like he's lost his mind. "What does that mean?"

"It's been two years. Two. That's not a lot of time to process all that happened to you. When I started seeing you, you had been out on the streets for six months. You were half-starved, severely traumatized, your arm was still healing … now, here you are with a steady job, friends, in fairly decent health … you've come so far, James." He pulls a file, looks at it. "Man, do you remember what day it was when you hit that IED?"

Bucky frowns. "No, I had a concussion. The docs said I probably wouldn't remember that kind of detail."

"Two years ago tomorrow. You were pretty close, your brain is telling your body that it remembers what happened; your body releases adrenaline and cortisol, and _boom!_ it's insomnia and panic attacks."

Bucky sags in the chair, relief evident in every line of his body. "I'm not going crazy?"

"Not any more than the rest of us. I can call your doctor, ask him to prescribe something to take the edge off and help you relax."

"No. No drugs. I've been through that. I'll deal with it."

"How's that working for you?"

Bucky grits his teeth. "I'll try harder."

Sam throws his hands up. "Dude, that ain't the answer I'm looking for." When he sees the utter misery on Bucky's face he pauses. "Tell you what, we'll just talk about your life for a few minutes and then I'll set up an appointment for the day after tomorrow, and we'll go from there, okay?"

Bucky nods. "I can do that."

Sam gets them both water from his mini-fridge and when Bucky loses that taut, nervous look around his eyes, he asks. "So, who's the new friend?"

"Steve?" Bucky's smile softens. "Would you believe I found him sleeping in the alley by Natasha's?"

"Same place Nat found you."

"He's a nice guy. He's staying with me until we figure out something that happened to him."

"That's going beyond being a good Samaritan."

A blush tinges Bucky's cheeks. "I like him … a lot." He takes a breath, "I know I'm not in a good place to begin a relationship. Hell, I'm not one hundred percent sure that he's into guys, but … I think he is … and I know he's just plain decent and kind. It's kinda nice having somebody around, you know? He's smart and funny, and talented … and I really like him," he repeats. 

"That's good, But you need to be careful, for yourself, for him." Sam's voice is gentle. "You deserve to be happy, Bucky. I hope he's the guy who can do that for you."

"Me, too." Bucky sighs.

There is a tap on the door and Steve looks in. "Everything okay?"

"Yeah, it's good." Bucky stands up and grimaces. "Umm … I'm gonna use the washroom."

"Sure."

Once Bucky is out of earshot Sam turns his attention to Steve. "So, you're living with Bucky?"

"For a while. It's not what you think. I'm not taking advantage of him. I'd never do that. He saved my life." Steve starts running out of air and pauses to take a breath. 

Sam nods. "Easy there, I kinda figured that out." 

"Is he … will he be okay? He's had some bad nights."

"I can't talk about his condition."

Steve blushes. "I know. I just …"

"He'll be okay." Sam gestures to a chair. "Sit. It's been two years since he was nearly blown to bits by an IED in Afghanistan. It's a tough anniversary." Sam opens his desk drawer and holds out a box that looks like the kind good jewelry comes in. He opens it up. "You know what this is?"

"Silver Star for valor," Steve says reverently. He touches the ribbon. "Yours?"

"Nope. It's his. He gave it to me at our first session and told me he wasn't fit to even look at it. He saved the lives of five men and he only sees the ones he couldn't save. Do you know what he did to earn this? After his convoy hit an IED, it was ambushed by the Taliban. Bucky held them at bay with a rifle until the less badly injured men were able to get away, then picked off six hostiles before he passed out from blood loss. The Taliban killed the injured soldiers, but left Bucky to die in agony. He was barely alive when the SEALS came in to rescue him. Yet, he believes he doesn't deserve to wear this medal."

Steve's throat feels like it's swollen twice its size. "He doesn't talk about it."

"And he probably won't."

"Why are you telling me this?"

"Because if you fuck up his life —"

"What? No! No, I'm not like that. He saved me, just like he saved his men. I'd never - I'd cut off my own arm before I hurt him! He … I … I swear he's safe with me." Steve stammers and Sam suddenly smiles, warm and gentle and wide. 

"It's good to meet you, Steve." He offers his hand again, this time his clasp is even more firm and friendly. "Seriously, dude. I think you're good for him. He needs somebody to care about him, and it seems you could be that person." 

Steve's blush returns, slowly rising from his collar to his forehead. "I care! A lot." That admission is so heartfelt, his emotions so obvious that Sam is ashamed to have needled Steve so harshly. 

"Good." They are spared further embarrassment by Bucky's return. 

"Are you two done with your love-fest?" He leans against the doorframe, one brow lifted and a smile tilting the corner of his mouth. 

Sam laughs, "Get out of here, Barnes. I'll see you the day after tomorrow."

"I'll make sure he gets here," Steve promises. "Even if Natasha threatens to fire me."

"That's the kind of friend you need, Bucky."

"Then it's good I've got one." He nudges Steve. "C'mon let's get out of here. I want a burger."

They say goodbye to Sam and step out into the chilly darkness of twilight New York.

_TBC_


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A tentative relationship begins. Sitwell discovers a villain. Steve has a heart to heart with Sam about Bucky, and has a dangerous encounter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I thought there would be less angst in this chapter, but nope. Angst up the wazoo. And hurt/comfort. I make no claim to be a medical expert, but I did my research. 
> 
> Warnings for a frank discussion of Bucky's amputation and mild violence that happens off the page.

Chapter 6

The apartment has never seemed as much of a refuge to Bucky as it does when he locks the door behind him that evening. He's held it together through dinner at his favorite burger joint, managed to make light conversation with Steve that wasn't completely disjointed or off the wall, but now that they're home, he just wants to sit in silence and shake. 

Steve is looking at him with concern. "Buck, do you need anything? Meds? To go to bed?"

Bucky draws in a shaky breath. "There's a bottle of bourbon under the sink. For emergencies," he smiles wanly. "I think this counts."

"Okay. Water? Ice?" He looks doubtful.

Bucky shakes his head. "Don't worry, I don't drink much. Even Sam says he thinks a shot every now and then is good. Straight, over two ice cubes. Just a shot."

"Okay." Steve goes into the kitchen and rustles around until he finds the bottle. "It's kind of dusty."

"It's fine. Bourbon doesn't spoil." He wants to laugh a little at Steve's concern, but in truth, he's touched by it. 

"Here." Steve comes over with two glasses. He hands Bucky a glass with bourbon and two ice cubes. He keeps the one with slightly less bourbon for himself. "Is this what you usually drink?"

"Phil and Clint brought it over. Knowing Phil, it's top shelf." Bucky holds up his glass. "Better days," he says and Steve smiles and clinks his glass. "I'll drink to that."

Bucky lets the liquor warm and flow down his throat, the heat welcome. It feels good, that first swallow. Steve takes a sip as if it will poison him, then smiles. "It's pretty good." He settles into the cushions. His shoulder is warm against Bucky's. Cautiously, Bucky slides his arm along the back of the sofa. He's feeling a bit fuzzy as the stress of the day slowly bleeds away. "Is this okay?" he asks.

Steve nods and his body seems to fit against Bucky's like he was meant to be there. Bucky looks down at the feather of lashes against Steve's cheeks. He asks, "How'd you break your nose?"

He expects the usual — fell of a bike, skateboard, ran into tree while chasing a fly ball. Instead Steve says, "I got punched by a guy bullying a girl. She was trying to walk home and he was following her, making comments, scaring her."

"So you had to be a hero?"

"Yeah. A hero with a nose that won't ever be the same shape."

"Did you get a date from the damsel?"

"As if." Steve snorts. "As soon I distracted the guy she ran home. Never saw her again." 

"You're such a punk," Bucky says fondly and runs the tip of his finger down the crooked bridge of Steve's nose. "I like it. Gives that baby face of yours some character."

"How much have you had to drink?" Steve looks up at Bucky. 

His lips are inches from Bucky's, and the temptation is overwhelming. "Too much or not enough," He whispers and bends his head. His lips brush against Steve's. He feels Steve go still, can feel the shock. "Aw, fuck." He groans. "I'm so sorry."

"For what?" Steve's eyes are wide, but he doesn't look angry or ashamed. He looks gentle and confused. 

"I'm … I'm such a mess." Bucky's head drops against the back of the couch. "I'm sorry. Pretend it never happened."

"What if I wanted it to happen?" Steve asks quietly. "What if it's what I've been waiting for? What if it's because I was too scared to try until you were ready?" He turns to face Bucky and rises up on his knees. He takes Bucky's face in his cool hands and kisses him.

There is no hesitation, no fear; just a firm press of his lips against Bucky's. It doesn't go beyond that — Bucky can't force it, and his head is whirling; from liquor, from exhaustion, from sheer amazement that somebody — that _Steve_ wants him. 

When Steve draws back, he's smiling. "Your lips are stupidly hot, Buck." 

Bucky gives a short laugh. "Whatever," but he can't help feeling a bit smug. His fingers tangle in Steve's hair and he draws his head down to rest on his shoulder. They sit there for a few minutes before Bucky asks in a total _non sequitor_ , "How'd it go with Sitwell?"

"You want to talk about that?" 

Bucky shrugs. "I've been thinking about it - about you - all day, even when I was kind of freaking out."

Steve nods. "It went okay, I guess. I gave him a few leads he said he would follow-up."

"That sounds promising."

"Maybe. Sitwell seems decent enough."

"Phil trusts him. You should, too."

"I do … but it's hard, thinking that I'm the one this investigation is counting on for details."

"You're good at details. You see the whole picture. That's what Sitwell needs." Bucky tries to suppress a huge yawn and fails. "Man, I feel like I've been hit by a brick. I think I'd better go to bed before my stupid takes over."

"Buck?" Steve sounds hesitant, shy. "Can I sleep with you?"

"Sleep active or sleep passive? Because the former is kind of out of the question tonight."

Steve laughs. "That's an interesting way of putting it. But passive. Definitely passive."

Bucky hasn't wanted anything this badly in a long time. Maybe having Steve next to him will help him sleep, because God knows he needs a full night's rest like he needed water in the desert. "I'd like that."

"Good. Because there was no way in Hell I'm going to leave you alone tonight."

Bucky waits until Steve is in the bathroom before he takes off his shirt and puts on a clean long-sleeved hoodie and flannel sleep pants. His window is frosted already, promising a cold night. When Steve is finished, Bucky takes his turn to clean up and brush his teeth. Steve is curled up in his bed by the time he's finished.

Bucky eases his way under the covers, his left side away from Steve, his right pressed close. Steve slides his arms around Bucky — an act of trust that Bucky won't strike out against him in his sleep. "Night, Buck," he mutters. He's already half-asleep.

Bucky kisses his cheek. "Night, Steve. Thanks for staying with me."

"No problem." Steve's voice fades. Bucky feels his own eyelids grow heavy. Steve's breathing is even and clear. Bucky rests his chin on the top of Steve's head, feels the warmth of his breath on his throat. He can't fight sleep any longer. He loses the battle and surrenders.

^*^*^*^*^*^*^  
Steve wakes at first light, surprised to find Bucky still asleep. He had turned to his back during the night and his right arm is flung over Steve's body. Steve rolls to his side and looks down at his sleeping friend, or whatever they are to each other after those kisses the night before. It doesn't matter. Steve is looking at him now with the eyes of an artist, not a bedmate.

He studies Bucky's profile; the high forehead, the level brows, the narrow, straight nose, the slightest overbite that makes his lips so tempting and yet, so vulnerable. How could he not see how beautiful he is? Steve traces Bucky's lips lightly with his finger, then when they twitch into a smile, he leans in and kisses Bucky. "Go back to sleep," he whispers. "It's too early."

"Gotta go to work," Bucky murmurs.

"Not for an hour."

Bucky's eyes open. "I can think of better things I'd like to do in that hour than sleep." He runs his finger down Steve's sternum. 

"Yeah, like my bony chest is that appealing."

"It is to me," Bucky's lips move in soft kisses down Steve's breastbone, to his navel, to the pale line if hair that becomes darker and thicker as he moves lower. 

"Don't … Buck, no. I'm not ready for this."

Bucky rests his head on Steve's abdomen and peers up at him. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing's wrong. But this … this isn't right for either of us yet. Please, don't be mad at me." Bucky doesn't look mad, he looks puzzled.

"I'm not mad. Just …It could have been so good, Stevie." He kisses the patch of sensitive skin just below Steve's navel, which raises a shiver and a desire to give in to Bucky, but he can't, he _won't_ do that. 

"It will be." Steve tries to infuse his voice with conviction. Maybe it works. Bucky eases up and kisses him again. 

"Trust me, Stevie. It will be amazing." Bucky's smile is soft. "I'm gonna make coffee and shower. You stay tucked in here. It's cold. The boiler is pretty tired so the heat isn't great."

Once Bucky gets up, the loss of his warmth is palpable. Steve burrows under the covers thinks about Bucky; If he's ready for a relationship, if he's emotionally stable enough, if he needs more than Steve can give him. Steve can hardly answer those questions for himself. He isn't sure he can talk to Bucky about his doubts, because that will only hurt him and make him feel even more flawed. He's afraid to talk to Natasha because she's too scarily perceptive, and might tell Bucky. He needs somebody who knows Bucky, but won't betray him, or Steve's confidences. _Sam,_ he'll talk to Sam. 

He's interrupted by Bucky tugging the covers away from his shoulders. "C'mon. The bathroom's all warmed up. I'll make breakfast. You like oatmeal?"

"Maybe?"

Bucky laughs. "You don't know?"

"Last time I had it was a few years ago. It was okay."

"You'll like mine."

Steve sighs and takes his time in the bathroom. When he comes out, he's greeted with the aroma of apples, cinnamon and brown sugar. There are two bowls on the table. Oatmeal, but topped with caramelized apples, raisins, and a splash of milk. "You said you couldn't cook," Steve accuses. 

"I can't. Instant oatmeal dressed up. Not cooking."

Steve would argue with that, but he takes a tentative bite. "It's good."

Bucky looks ridiculously pleased. "Eat up. It's wicked cold out there." 

^*^*^*^*^*^*^  
Steve finishes the early afternoon rush and is about to take a break when Detective Sitwell comes in. Steve gets Sitwell is usual scalding black coffee and Russian tea biscuit. Steve wipes his hands off, hangs up his apron and joins Jasper. "Please tell me you closed this case," he says, without much hope.

"Sorry. But I think you gave us the best break we've had in a while. One of the other vics said they recognized the picture you drew, but the name they were given was Brad Radlaw. That kind of rang a bell with Coulson. He did a bit of digging and came up with a con artist named Brock Rumlow. Phil recalled that Rumlow was running a scam out of a back room gambling club in Hell's Kitchen."

"How do you go from Hell's Kitchen to Park Avenue with a background like that?"

"You link up with Alexander Pierce."

"I don't know who that is."

"Then, son, you're about the only person in New York who doesn't." Sitwell takes a swallow of his coffee. "Pierce is almost as rich as Tony Stark and more arrogant than Donald Trump. He's head of a huge conglomerate that has holding in everything from mining to deep sea exploration."

"Why on earth would somebody like that want to scam small-time artists? It doesn't make sense."

"Pierce has Rumlow working on something. Maybe a feint to take attention away from the real objective."

Steve sighs. "This isn't something I know anything about — I'm just the artist who was played for a schmuck."

Sitwell laughs, but kindly. "Nah, not such a schmuck. You're a good kid."

"Not a kid," Stave says, slightly miffed. He's not a big guy, but he's not a weakling, either. 

"Right. Thank you for your help." He stands up. "I'll keep you posted."

"Sounds good. Want another cup to go?"

"Just heat this one up."

Steve is still watching the door when Bucky comes next to him and slings his arm over Steve's shoulder. "Anything new?"

"Not much. Seems that the guy who set me up works for Alexander Pierce."

Bucky stiffens against his side. "Pierce has a lot of power in this city. You don't want to cross him. I hope Sitwell is discreet."

"I'm not in danger, Buck. I'll bet Pierce doesn't even know who I am. In his book I'm just a dumb fuck who fell for a scam."

"You ID'd Rumlow. I'm just saying you need to be careful."

"Worry much?" Steve nudges against Bucky and looks up at him. His jaw is tight, his eyes dark with concern. "I'll be fine, Bucky."

"You'd better be, punk." Bucky ruffles Steve's hair affectionately. "You should go home. I've got the end of the month reports to do, so I'll be here for a couple of hours."  
  
Steve thinks Bucky looks tired; rumpled and sexy, but mostly tired. He'd stay, but he has something he wants to do, if he can, without Bucky knowing about it. "Yeah. Do you want me to pick up a pizza for dinner?"

"That would be great. Thanks." He tightens his grip briefly, then lets him go. "Be careful."

"Yeah, yeah. I hear you." Steve can't help smiling, though. He takes off his apron, puts on his coat and hat, and heads out. As soon as he's out of sight, he calls Sam Wilson.

"Hi, Sam, it's Steve Rogers, Bucky's friend."

"Of course. What's up?"

"Can I come over to see you?"

"Sure. But why?"

"I know you can't talk a lot about Bucky, but maybe you could answer a couple of questions for me."

"Sure. Just remember there are confidentiality issues here."

"I know." Steve takes a breath. "See you in few minutes?"

"You know where I live."

^*^*^*^*^*^*^

Sam is waiting with a steaming mug of tea and a warm smile. The walk over has chilled Steve to the bone, even with his new coat, and he perches on Sam's office couch with his hands wrapped around the mug until he finally stops shivering. Sam is perfectly patient until Steve takes a deep breath. "So, Bucky … "

"Ask away. If I feel you're asking more than I can answer I'll tell you. But maybe you should be asking Bucky these questions?"

"I don't think he'd answer them."

"True. He's a stubborn guy."

Steve puts the mug down. "You told me how he lost his arm. He acts like he's ashamed of that, and I don't understand."

"Have you ever heard of survivor's guilt?"

"Is that a hypothetical question or an answer to mine?"

Sam smiles briefly. "Man, take it as you will, but it's a very real thing, and yeah, it's perfectly normal for people who have survived a trauma when others have died to feel guilt. It's part of my job to treat soldiers who have been in that situation."

Steve thinks for a moment as he frames his next question is a way that Sam can answer it without compromising Bucky's confidentiality. "He doesn't believe me when I tell him I think he's …" Steve stops, suddenly aware that he's about to out himself and possibly Bucky. 

Sam leans forward and puts his hand on Steve's knee. "Hey, it's okay. There's not much I don't know about Bucky, including that he's into you. I could tell that when he introduced us. So, if you think he's beautiful, I agree."

"He doesn't see that. He's ashamed of his body."

"We all have flaws," Sam says. "It's the way we're made — and there's sweet damn all we can do about it in most cases. People who lose limbs, it takes a long time for them to make peace with their bodies. It's worse when it's something that seriously impacts their ability to function normally."

"He's never used a prosthetic?" Steve asks, wondering if that's too confidential when Sam takes a minute to answer but he does, his voice soft and sad. 

"It's not that simple. If a soldier loses a leg, they get a prothesis and it's pretty hard to tell it's not real when they're wearing long pants. Two legs is harder, but in the end, most can function with some degree of proficiency. Take an arm away … that's damn hard. Try going through a day with one arm tied behind your back. You'd be angry, frustrated, clumsy. Even with a good prosthetic — and there are some amazing ones for people who lose an arm below or just above the elbow — it's still not ideal. What happened to Bucky, an amputation involving near shoulder disarticulation, is severe. The physical problems alone are daunting; many patients reject the prosthesis due to reasons ranging from the sheer effort of managing it, to the weight or pain from the way it is fitted, to the sad fact that they just don't work that well."

Steve doesn't think any of those reasons, however logical, apply to Bucky. He's pretty sure Sam knows it, too. "That's not Bucky."

"No, but now we're skirting confidentiality, here."

Steve understands and he treads cautiously. "I think he's afraid to be happy. I think he believes he doesn't deserve to be happy, and if he is, some disaster will happen to people he cares about. I-I don't want him to go through life like that, Sam."

"Neither do I." That's as close as he will come to admitting that Steve is on the right track. 

"I just don't want to hurt him. He's been hurt enough."

Sam leans forward. "Listen, Steve. Bucky … he's defensive and self-protective. He could hurt you. You need to be aware that he's no saint."

"I'm tougher than I look. My ma always said I was as stubborn as a rock once I got an idea in my head. I can take anything Bucky says — not that it won't hurt — but I can take it."

Sam just shakes his head. "You two make a pair. I don't know if I'm glad you found each other or if I should hit you both upside the head to knock some kind of sense into you."

Steve laughs. "Won't matter, Sam."

"That's the way it is?"

"Yeah. That's the way it is." Steve gets up. "Thanks for talking to me, Sam."

"Anytime, especially if that idiot decides to try to cut you loose. You come see me, you got that?"

"Got it. Umm … do I owe you anything?"

"What? Nah. Well, maybe a cup of coffee and one of Natasha's cinnamon scones."

"You got it."

Steve bundles up in his coat, wraps his scarf around his throat and puts on his hat. He checks his watch. He's been talking to Sam for less than an hour, and Bucky should still be at the bakery. He decides to head there first before going back to the empty apartment. It's always better when Bucky's with him.

The early blue winter twilight takes him by surprise. He's forgotten how quickly it comes. With the sun down, it's even more bitter. He hunches inside his coat and stuffs his hands in his pocket. With his head bowed against the wind, he doesn't see the the man step out of the alley and start following him. 

^*^*^*^*^*^*^

Bucky's eyes ache from staring at the computer screen. Some days he just can't make those numbers march in straight and sensible lines to the logical conclusion. He really hates Excel. His neck hurts, his shoulder feels tight, and the phantom pain from his missing arm is particularly wearing tonight. He wants a painkiller, a hot shower, and real food in his belly. Most of all, he wants Steve's restful presence, and maybe, if he can get up the courage to ask, another massage. First, he has to get this last column of numbers to add up … Magically, after two more tries, it does. "Hallelujah!" Bucky breathes, saves the file and turns off the computer. 

It's cold back in the office, colder in the delivery area. Bucky wraps his coat securely around his body, shoves his hat on his head, and steps out into the night. Two steps later, he's flat on his face. "What the fu …" He sits up, wondering what he tripped over. In the wavering glow of the security light, he sees drops of red on white snow, a long blue scarf, and a pale, long-fingered hand. 

"Steve!" Bucky stumbles to knees, crawls over to the prone figure and lays shaking fingers against the pulse in Steve's throat. The beat is faint but steady. Bucky digs his phone out and calls 911. He takes off his own coat and covers Steve with it. "What happened, Stevie? God, Stevie, you're such a punk!" His voice is thick. It doesn't sound like his own — faint and far away in his ears. He isn't aware that he is shivering, that there are cold tears on his cheeks, or that snow has started drifting down. 

The paramedics arrive quickly, but to Bucky it seems like forever. Somebody drapes a blanket over his shoulders while a police officer asks questions that Bucky can't answer. He's trying to listen to the cop and hear with the medics are saying, and he can't seem to stop shivering. 

A paramedic touches him, and Bucky flinches away violently. "Don't!" he rasps, his breath ramping up. 

The medic steps back, her hands open and away from her body. "It's okay, right? Sorry if I startled you."

Bucky is instantly ashamed. He shakes his head. "No, it's okay. How is he?"

"We'll take him to the hospital for x-rays. Do you want to ride with him?"

"Yeah, thanks." He struggles to his feet, hating that she looks like she wants to help him, but holding back. "I really am sorry," he says. "I — I'm working on it."

She nods. "My brother was in the army. He saw some pretty rough things. It gets to him. Umm, this isn't any of my business, but do you have somebody to talk to?"

This time, Bucky can be honest. He nods and hauls himself into the back of the ambulance next to Steve. The ambulance bay is warm, at least. The medic is taking Steve's vitals, and now that they're in the light, Bucky can see how bruised his face is; dried blood streaking down from swollen lips, a dark red bloom on his cheek. Another cut bisects his eyebrow. "Shouldn't he be conscious by now?" he asks the medic.

"Depends. Looks like he took a good whack to the head. He's got a concussion."

Bucky huddles into the blankets. His misery must show because the medic asks, "Are you okay?"

"C-cold is all," Bucky stammers. He is cold, cold to the roots of his soul. The lurching of the ambulance is making him nauseous. 

The medic hands him a plastic bag. "You look kinda green."

Truth be told, he feels kinda green, but he can hold it together. He's felt worse. The ride to the hospital is mercifully short. Bucky watches as they wheel Steve into a treatment area. When Bucky tries to follow, a nurse stops him. "Sir, you need to wait here." 

“I need to be in there with him," he says. He can't take his eyes off the glass cubicle where it seems like an army of doctors and nurses is surrounding Steve. His heart is starting to beat in a familiar, panicked rhythm. He grips the sides of the chair, forces himself to be centered in the here and now, not in the past. He hates hospitals. He hates the memories that claw at him; of blood, illness, fever and pain. 

The nurse crouches at his level and he meets her sympathetic gaze. "You can see him as soon as the doctors are finished. Right now, it's better for you both if you stay out here. Can I get you some tea or coffee?"

Bucky's throat feels like he's been swallowing sand. "Water would be great. I don't suppose I can beg some aspirin from you?"

"Sorry, not without a doctor's order," She looks at him sympathetically. "But I have some in my purse, though, that I can give you as … as a friend." She tilts her head. 

Bucky smiles. "Works for me … and I won't tell a soul." He can be as charming as hell when he wants to be, even in the midst of staving off a panic attack. After she leaves, he calls Natasha and Sam. He gets both of their voice mails and leaves the same message. _Steve's at St. Vincent's. Please come ASAP._

They haven't arrived when a doctor comes out of the treatment area and looks around for a likely contact for Steve. Bucky is the only person in the waiting room at the moment. "Are you Steve Rogers family?" he asks. 

Bucky is torn between honesty and an outright lie. He decides honesty might not get him in to see Steve right now, but that lying might get him thrown out. "He doesn't have family," he says quietly. "He lives with me. Can you just tell me how he is?"

"He's conscious, a little confused. He keeps asking for a Bucky?" The doctor looks baffled. "I have no idea --"

"That's me." He digs out his ID. "James Buchanan Barnes, aka Bucky. I blame my mom." He tries to smile reassuringly. 

The doctor looks at his ID, looks at his arm, looks him in the eye. "Okay. You can see him for five minutes before we take him off for x-rays and a CT scan. We want to make sure he doesn't have any broken ribs and a more severe concussion. I feel better about the latter now that I know what the hell a 'Bucky' is." He gives him a faint smile before he heads off to order the tests. 

Bucky edges into the room, still expecting that somebody will stop him. Steve is frowning at him beneath his swollen eyebrow. "Bucky?"

"How many of me do you see?" Bucky asks, trying for levity because if he doesn't he'll break down and do something that will embarrass both of them. 

"Just one, though I wish there had been at least two of you earlier."

"Stevie, who did this to you? Did you see them?"

He shakes his head and winces. "Ouch! No, not a clue. I was walking home when this guy just came up behind me and shoved me down, punched and kicked me a few times -- though I got in a couple of licks of my own -- then somebody else came down the sidewalk and yelled at the guy to leave me alone. I got up and ran for the bakery, but I slipped on the ice and banged my head. The concussion was my own stupid fault."

"You could have been killed!"

"Geez, Buck. I was mugged, that's all. Happens all the time around here. It's no big deal."

"It landed you in the hospital and scared me half to death. I thought you were gonna die." The relief that Steve is okay drops the adrenaline spike down too fast, and Bucky's shaking intensifies. He sinks down on the edge of the bed and takes Steve's fingers in his. "I should'should'aa made you stay and wait for me."

"None of this is your fault!" Steve uses more breath than he ought to, and hisses with pain. 

"Take it easy. I've had cracked ribs. It feels like somebody decided to filet you with a dull knife."  
  
"That's a pretty apt description," Steve grimaces. He says softly. "I'm glad you found me, Bucky."

"Me, too." He risks a kiss on Steve's fingers. "Good thing you got those benefit papers all filed, huh?"

Before Steve can answer, two orderlies come in. "We're taking you to x-ray and CT scan. He'll be back in an hour or so."

"Can I see your IDs?" Bucky asks, suddenly paranoid that somebody will try to hurt Steve even more. He looks at the ID photos, at the worn edges of the badges, and decides it's probably safe to let Steve go. "I'll be waiting, and if it takes any longer, I'll come after him."

He looks so fierce that the orderly actually takes a step back. "Easy, man. I'm just doin' my job, okay?"

He reminds Bucky of Sam, and there isn't any malice or hidden agenda lurking behind his words. Bucky stands aside. "Take care of him. He's my friend."

"Got it, dude." 

There's no point in waiting in the cubicle once they wheel Steve out. Bucky returns to the waiting room just as Sam and Natasha shove through the doors of the ER and engulf him with questions and concern. Bucky answers the questions with what he knows and tries to brush off the concern without much success. Still, it's comforting to have somebody else there. After an hour, he tells them they should go home. "You both have to work tomorrow," he reminds them. "I'll just wait here. It shouldn't be long."

"And how will you get home?" Natasha asks. 

_Fuck_ he hadn't thought of that. "If you lend me ten, I'll take a cab," he says. "I'm not stupid enough to ride the subway at this hour."

Sam speaks up. "It's my late day tomorrow. I'll sleep in." 

"I'm the boss," Natasha says firmly. "I keep my own hours." 

"I don't," Bucky sighs.

"You are not coming in to work tomorrow," she says firmly. She's about to say more when the doctor returns, following the gurney with Steve on it. Steve waves at them and mouths, "I'm fine."

Bucky doesn't believe it for a minute. "Doc?"

"We'll keep him overnight for observation. He'll be discharged in the morning.His ribs will be sore for a couple of weeks, but the concussion is minor. We just want to be sure that's all there is. His lungs sound a little wet. Does he have asthma?"

Bucky nods, and the doctor writes that on Steve's chart. "Okay, then. Go home. We'll take good care of him, I promise."

"We'll pick him up in the morning," Sam says, his hand firm on Bucky's shoulder. "Thank you."

"Now we'll take you home -- no arguments, James," Natasha warns. She tucks her arm in his. "You're exhausted. You need to sleep." They drag him out the door after he gives Steve one quick goodnight kiss. 

The apartment seems empty and hauntingly quiet without Steve there. Bucky toes off his boots and wraps himself in his afghan that smells disconcertingly of Steve. He doesn't think he'll sleep, but he can't keep his eyes open. When he surrenders, he doesn't dream. 

**TBC**


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A threat is made. Clint enters the picture. Bucky and Sitwell have a chat, and Bucky is falling in love.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: an instance of homophobic language, mention of suicidal thoughts in the past.

Chapter 7

Bucky is awake, showered and pacing when his phone finally rings. He snatches it off the counter where he'd spent a good portion of the morning staring at it, willing it to ring. "Steve!" 

"Hey, you sound kind of breathless."

"No, no. I'm fine. How are you?"

"Floaty. They gave me something for my ribs."

"You sound floaty," Bucky says, blinking away impossible tears. "So, are you ready to come home?"

"That sounds good. Maybe after I have breakfast? I'm kinda hungry." 

Bucky laughs softly, "Man, you are wasted. I'll give you a couple of hours, okay? I'll be there by eleven."

"I'm not goin' anywhere."

"You better not. See you in a few, punk."

"Love you too, jerk." The line goes silent and Bucky stares at the phone. It's the drugs, he tells himself. It's just the drugs. But he takes those words and wraps them in his memory. Even if Steve doesn't remember saying them, at least Bucky will know that he did.

He calls Natasha and tells her he needs to borrow her car and that he won't be coming into work. "Of course, you're not," she sighs. "What am I paying you for, again?"

"My charm and wit," he says, and he smiles when she snorts with laughter. "You're the one who said I wasn't coming in today, remember?"

"Go, get your boyfriend. You'd better be here tomorrow, though."

"I promise," Bucky says solemnly. "Nat, I really appreciate everything you've done. I'll be by in an hour to get the car." He spends the next forty-five minutes cleaning and changing the sheets on the sofa. It would be a lot easier with two arms, but he manages. When he's done, he brushes his hair, and puts on his good jeans and a dark blue shirt. He packs up some clean clothes for Steve so he doesn't have to wear the ones from the night before. 

He's still amazed that Natasha trusts him to drive her car in New York traffic without blinking at his handicap. She either has no respect for her vehicle, or she figures if someone hits him it will be their fault, because he'll surely get the sympathy vote. It never occurs to him to think it might be because she trusts him and his skills. 

He parks in the ER lot and takes the elevator up to the medical floor. Steve is sitting on the edge of his bed, still in the pajamas the hospital provided. The one size fits all doesn't fit him at all, sliding down his shoulder and gapping around his clavicle. He's hunched over, protecting his ribs and looking pale and battered. Bucky's heart breaks a little. 

"Hey, I brought you some traveling clothes." He sets the backpack on the bed. "How are you doing?"

"Less floaty, more achey. My head hurts."

"Did they give you something?"

Steve looks guilty. "Yeah, but I didn't take it yet."

"Why the hell not?"

"Because I didn't think you'd appreciate having to drag my sorry ass across the street to the subway." 

"Don't have to. I have Natasha's car." He can't help watching Steve for any sign of trepidation or doubt, but there is none, just a wide smile. 

"Door to door service. Maybe I should get hit over the head more often."

"Don't even joke about that," Bucky says severely. "Get dressed so we can blow this pop stand."

"That is so lame," Steve laughs, and winces. "Don't make me laugh, please." He takes his shirt out of the bag. "Little help here?"

Bucky isn't prepared for this. He nods, but he can feel his heart beating hard and fast. He tugs on the hospital gown ties and it slides down Steve's arms. His skin is pale, perfect, with a slight sheen where it pulls over his sharp shoulder blades. Steve eases out of the sleeves and the fabric pools at his waist. There is an elastic bandage binding his ribs. Dark bruises show over the edge of the bindings. Bucky sets his hand gently on Steve's side. 

"I'm sorry," he says. "I should never have let you —"

Steve draws away. "Stop treating me like I can't take care of myself, like I'm some piece of fragile glass that's going to shatter at the slightest touch. I'm not like that! Sure my lungs aren't worth shit and I'm not six feet tall, but don't underestimate me." He jerks the hoodie out of Bucky's hands, then gasps at the sharp pain that nearly doubles him over. 

Bucky catches him. "Easy. Just breathe easy. I know what it feels like." He waits until Steve's breathing evens out, then helps him into the hoodie. "I'm sorry," he says quietly. "I don't think of you like that." He sits on the bed next to Steve. "It's hard sometimes for me to let go of the idea that I have to protect the people I keep close. In the past ... when I've failed … they died."

Before Steve can reply to that, Bucky stands up. "There's some paperwork you'll have to sign. I'll get it from the nurse's station. Can you manage?"

"Yeah … I'm fine." 

Bucky picks up the forms and brings them to Steve. He's dressed, looking a little white around the mouth, but upright. He reads the forms and signs them. A doctor comes in with his chart and does a quick examination. "Everything looks good. Keep the ribs wrapped firmly but not tight enough to restrict your breathing. Don't run any marathons and try not to breathe in cold air. How is your headache?"

"It hurts behind my eyes, but it's better than it was yesterday." He tries not to flinch away from the light the doctor shines in his eyes. 

"Dizzy? Nauseous?"

"A little dizzy when I move too fast, but no nausea."

"Good. You're out of here, then. If you have any troubling symptoms, call 911 because it could be something more serious than a concussion. I don't expect any problems but it's better to be safe."

"I'll keep an eye on him." 

"He should be pretty much set for normal activities by next week, sooner if he doesn't exhaust himself or try to lift a Mack truck."

"Funny, doc." Steve says with a smile. He takes the papers and puts them in the backpack. Bucky shoulders the pack and they walk out to the car. The weather is warmer than it has been and the sun is out. Steve takes a breath. "Ouch!"

"Babe, cracked ribs don't like deep breaths," Bucky says, and watches as Steve's ears turn pink at the reckless endearment. He can't help feeling just a little smug as he starts the car and navigates the streets of Brooklyn more carefully than he had driving to the hospital.

^*^*^*^*^*^*^

Steve falls asleep on the way home, which alarms Bucky, but he wakes up coherent and smiling. "I guess I drifted off. After being shaken awake every two hours last night, I'm kinda tired."

"I promise not to do that tonight." He wheels the car into a parking space that has to be illegal. "Once I get you settled, I have to drive the car back to the bakery. I'll be back in less than an hour."

Steve looks like he's about to object to Bucky babying him, but he waits until Bucky opens the car door, not because he's helpless, but because opening it will make his ribs scream. He doubts Bucky would let him try. Once they're inside, Steve sighs happily. "It's good to be home."

"Will you take that painkiller now, for God's sake?" Bucky grumbles. "I'll feel better knowing you're not sitting here in misery for the next hour."

Steve digs a bottle of pills out of the backpack. "Just one."

Bucky reads the label. He's familiar with the medication. "Dosage says two."

"Look at me, Buck. I weigh ninety-seven pounds soaking wet. Two will lay me flat for two days. Trust me, one will be more than enough." 

Actually, it makes sense. Bucky knows the dosage is probably for a guy his size, not Steve's, so he doesn't object. He brings Steve a glass of water and waits for him to drink it down. "Okay, I'm going to return the car before I get a ticket or they put a boot on it. Nat will kill me if she has to get it out of impound." He peers at Steve. "You'll be alright?"

"Right as rain." He lays down slowly. "See, horizontal and ready to catch up on last night's missed sleep. See you when I see you." He makes an effort to look comfortable. "Go. I'll be fine."

"I'll get some of Shotz's chicken soup for dinner."

"Mmm. Sounds good." He closes his eyes. "Now, get out of here so I can get some sleep."

There really isn't anything Bucky can do but leave. 

^*^*^*^*^*^*^  
Going to the bakery was a mistake. There is a problem with one of their major suppliers that has to be addressed, Nat has to go out of town, and they are suddenly swamped by conventioneers who are demanding and generally rude. Jane is near tears and Bucky _can't_ leave her alone to deal with these assholes, so he stays. There's something about a one-armed soldier with icy eyes that makes even the worst offenders back off and let Jane take care of their orders. 

When the last of the customers finally leaves, Bucky looks at his watch and curses. "Jane, I've got to get back to Steve, okay?"

She pushes a strand of brown hair off her forehead. "Sure. Now that things have settled down, I'll be fine." She looks at her watch. "Thor will be here in about ten minutes."

"Thor?"

"You know. Big blond dude, sits in the corner, works at the university library?"

Of course, he knows. "How does that help?"

"Natasha hired him to work two nights a week. He's always here anyway." Jane's cheeks turn pink. "He put himself through grad school working at Starbucks." 

"Okay, then." Bucky is a little annoyed with Natasha, but he can't blame her. They need the help, and he's never liked the idea of Jane working the front of the store alone. 

"How's Steve? We miss him already."

"He'll be back in a few days, as soon as he can get off the prescription painkillers and on to plain ibuprofen. Other than that, he's okay."

"Who would do that to him? He's such a sweet guy."

Bucky shrugs. "People get mugged, Jane."

"Did they take his wallet?"

Bucky blinks at her. He'd never thought of that. "I-I don't know. It must be in the police report." The thought disturbs him. He goes into the office and calls Sitwell. He gets voicemail, of course. He leaves a message, his cell number and a brief message. He looks out, and Thor is coming through the front door, so Bucky decides he can take off now. He stops at the deli for chicken soup and picks up some fresh rolls from the Italian bakery next door. 

He grabs his mail from his box and puts it in the bag with the food, then opens up the door. It's a routine that has become instinctive, but his brain still sends irritating signals to what's left of his arm. The doctors tell him it might go away, but most likely will persist through his life. He hates it. He hates feeling inadequate, he hates his reflection in the mirror. He pushes those thoughts back in the mental box he's constructed and goes down the stairs to the apartment.  


Steve comes instantly awake when Bucky opens the door. He looks pale and rumpled, and the shadows under his eyes are dark. The cut on his lip looks swollen and painful. Bucky shakes his head. "You didn't get much sleep." It's not a question.

"No." He looks and sounds disgruntled. "I dozed." 

Bucky hands him the mail. "Here, go crazy with coupons while I get dinner ready." He goes into the kitchen, gets soup bowls from the cupboard and ladles out the fragrant broth. 

"Smells good, Buck," Steve says. "I'm not sleepy, but I'm pretty hungry."

"I brought extra, plus some of those rolls from the bakery. I'll just pop them in the microwave. How does that sound?"

"Buck?" There's something wrong. He can hear it in Steve's voice. He turns quickly. Steve's lips have gone white and his hands are shaking. He holds out a half-sheet of plain paper. "This … "

Bucky takes it from him and looks at it. The words are written in plain block letters with a heavy-tipped pen. _We know where you live, fag._

Bucky swears. "God damnit! I knew it wasn't a mugging!"

"W-what?" Steve stammers. "Of course it was."

"Did they take your wallet? Your money?"

"I-I think so. I don't know. Was it with my clothes?" He pulls his backpack closer and dumps it out. "No wallet. See."

Bucky isn't satisfied with that answer. He takes out his phone and calls Sitwell again, this time the detective picks up. "Detective, this is James Barnes. Can you come over to Natasha's?" He looks at his watch. "I'll be there."

Steve struggles upright. "I'm going with you."

"No. You're staying here." He makes another call. "Phil, this is James. Is Clint around?" There is a pause. "Hey, Clint. I've got a job for you. Come prepared." Another pause and he rolls his eyes. "Yeah, free coffee and pastry for two weeks, and I'll tell Natasha. You're such a prick."

Steve can hear Clint's laughter. "I don't need a babysitter, Buck."

"No, but I think you need a bodyguard while I talk to Sitwell." He takes the note and puts it in a baggie. "In case there are fingerprints other than ours."  


Steve sighs. "Okay, but I'm only letting you do this because my ribs hurt too damn much for me to go running around Brooklyn."

"You'll like Clint. He's one of the good guys."

"I didn't think you'd call him if he weren't." Steve lies back down. "I'll be fine."

"Take another painkiller?"

"No. If something happens I'd prefer to be in pain and alert than comfortable and foggy."

Clint arrives ten minutes later. He's carrying a narrow black case that looks like it would house a musical instrument. He opens it, takes something out and gives it a shake. It opens into a bow. "I brought Betsy along."

Steve's eyes are wide. "A bow?"

"Yeah. I can shoot a gun but they're loud, conspicuous and all kinds of awkward. Betsy? She's silent, deadly, and nobody can shoot her but me." His teeth glint in his smile. "By the way, I'm Clint Barton." He holds out his hand.

Steve takes it. "Steve Rogers. I'm nobody."

"Well, for being a nobody, you sure pissed off _somebody_." Clint sprawls comfortably in Bucky's chair. "So, what do you want to watch?"

Steve blinks. "Umm, I think I'm going to doze off, so anything?

Clint takes the remote and puts on the Food Channel. "I love _Chopped_. Hey, Barnes, ever want to be on TV?"

Bucky laughs. "No. Not ever, and not on _Chopped_. I've only got one functional hand, right? I'd kind of like to keep it." He pulls on his jacket. "Take care of him or I'll tell Phil."

"You watch your back. Steve might not the be only one who's being followed."

"Special Forces. I got this." But his mouth is grim and his eyes are cold and hard. 

^*^*^*^*^*^*^  
Sitwell is sitting in his usual place when Bucky enters the bakery. Bucky gets a cup of coffee for Sitwell and a chai latte for himself. He pulls out the chair opposite Sitwell. "Did you see the police report on Steve's assault?"

"Yeah, it crossed my desk. What do you want to know?"

"The officer who filed it, did he say it was a mugging?"

"Seemed like it was. It's not the best neighborhood you live in."

"Did anybody look through the dumpsters in the area? Trash cans? Gutters? Steve's wallet is missing."

"Not unusual."

"No, but this is." He slides the baggie across the table. "It was in my mailbox."

"Shit," Sitwell sighs. "This just got complicated." He takes out his phone and calls about sending some back-up to sweep the area for Steve's wallet. When he's finished he looks at Bucky. "You're thinking this is related to the gallery fraud?"

"Isn't that obvious?"

"It could just as easily be you." 

"Me? Nope, I don't think so. I've been around for too long, and in case you haven't noticed, I've only got one arm. I'm not a threat to anybody, so stop playing Devil's Advocate." Bucky can tell from the look on Sitwell's face that he's not buying that bullshit, but he doesn't say anything.

"There is a chance that the two incidents are unrelated."

"I don't believe in coincidences," Bucky says, somewhat more harshly than he intended.

"Neither do I." Sitwell drains his coffee. "I'll do some more digging on Rumlow's association with Pierce. I don't think Rumlow would get his hands dirty, but I'm sure he knows people who would do it for the kind of money Pierce is able to offer. Meanwhile, I can have a unit do drive-bys of your place on a regular basis."

"Unmarked, please."

Sitwell's eyes narrow. "You would have made a good cop, Barnes."

"My old man was one. Got himself killed when I was fifteen. I picked up a few things."

Sitwell nods. "Okay. Sorry about that."

Bucky shakes his head. "Nah, it's a long time ago. He knew the job and didn't coddle us. We grew up knowing the reality. " He shoves his chair away from the table. "I've gotta get back to Steve. Barton is with him."

Sitwell nods. "I'll be in touch. Thanks for the coffee. You keep giving the stuff away and your boss won't be happy."

"It's worth it," Bucky snaps a salute, and Sitwell laughs as he leaves. 

^*^*^*^*^*^*^  
Clint has moved on to _Iron Chef_ repeats and Steve is sleeping when Bucky returns. "Anything?"

"Nah, he's been out most of the afternoon. Poor kid musta' needed it."

"You've had cracked ribs and concussions. You know what it's like. Thanks for staying. Sitwell is setting up drive-bys. We'll be okay."

"You sound a little dubious."

"Well, you know."

"Yeah. You need back-up, just call. My students will be thrilled to get out of class." He packs up his bow. "Keep in touch. Phil and I owe you a meal. You can even bring your boyfriend."

Bucky, to his horror, blushes. "Not my boyfriend."

"Denial is a river in Africa, Barnes." He winks and leaves Bucky trying not to laugh or throw the TV remote at the door. 

Bucky sits for a while, watching Steve sleep. His blond hair is sticking up in fluffy tufts, the blanket is pulled up to his chin, and there is a furrow between his brows as if he can feel the pain beneath the dulling drugs. His mouth is open slightly, and Bucky recalls how dry his lips and mouth were from the narcotics they gave him in the hospital. He brings a glass of cold water with a straw in it to Steve and gently puts his hand on his shoulder. 

"Stevie? You in there?"

One blue eye opens up, then the other. He smiles sleepily. "Hey, Buck. That was fast."

"It was three hours ago." He holds the straw to Steve's lips. "You need to hydrate. Those drugs dry you out like a sponge." 

Obediently, Steve drinks. His lashes shield his eyes and cast shadows hon his cheeks. Bucky's stomach hurts, because no matter what they say, it's not your heart that hurts, it's a feeling deep in your gut that tells you what you want is something you can't have. 

"What's wrong?" Steve asks. 

"Nothing," Bucky lies. "I talked to Sitwell. He's looking into things. Meanwhile, he's arranging for a regular patrol through the neighborhood. I'm not letting you out of my sight for five minutes," Bucky says softly and he can't help smoothing the tufts of Steve's hair. Steve doesn't shy away. He leans in to the caress, as if he craves Bucky's touch. 

Bucky is only human. It's been so long since he's been touched, since he's wanted to be touched. He buries his head in Steve's shoulder and breathes in his scent; sweat and hospital and musk. He doesn't care. He feels Steve's arms come around his shoulders, the warmth of his palms even through his sweater. 

They stay like that until Steve chokes back a small sound of pain. Bucky snaps back to reality. He releases Steve quickly. "Sorry, sorry. You're hurt and I'm a bastard for forgetting it." He stands up, his hand shaking. "You need more pain meds?"

"Buck, listen to me. I'm okay." He grips Bucky's wrist. "I'm fine."

"Steve …"

Steve's mouth sets in a stubborn line. "Listen to me. I've spent most of my life in some kind of pain or another. I've survived everything. I'll get through this, too. Just give me a few days."

"You shouldn't have to 'get through' anything." Bucky is angry now, feeling sick because he knows what it is like to deal with pain; not the fleeting kind from cracked ribs, but the enduring kind that wears you down and makes even a strong man want to end it all. He nearly wasn't that strong before he met Natasha and Sam, Clint and Coulson … and now Steve. 

He takes a deep breath. "You should eat something before take more pain meds. I was going to make eggs and toast."

"Sounds good. Do I have time for a shower? I can smell the hospital on myself."

Bucky grins, back on more solid ground. "I was getting used to it." 

"Don't." Steve is still wrapping his arm around his ribs, but he's moving more freely. 

Bucky starts the eggs and toast. He's standing at the stove stirring them when Steve comes over to his side. He rests his head on Bucky's shoulder, the one by his truncated stump. Bucky stiffens, but Steve stays there, sliding one warm hand under Bucky's sweater to rest against his side. 

"I'll burn the eggs," Bucky says softly. Steve kisses his shoulder, and Bucky can feel the heat on his skin. "Watch this." He does an amazing flip of the omelet in the pan.

"Show off."

"Nope, one-armed coping skill." He kisses the top of Steve's head. "Let's eat."

**TBC**


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bucky asks Steve on a date, and has a minor freak out. The date turns out not to be the disaster he's envisioned.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was planning on advancing the plot, but Bucky and Steve hijacked me and made me write some happy stuff for them instead. I may have a short chapter to post next week, but I'm going out of town, so there may not be an update. I hope everybody has a great holiday, and don't forget to thank the brave men and women who serve their country. 
> 
> So, some angst, some h/c, some big steps for Bucky. 
> 
> NOTE: Implied PTSD, some non-graphic descriptions of Bucky's injuries, some intimacy issues to be resolved.

A few days later, when Steve is no longer wincing at every move and there is color back in his face, Bucky makes a decision. Steve is sketching, a frown of concentration drawing his brows level and looking so fucking adorable that Bucky can't take it anymore. 

"I think we should go out on a date," he says, and holds his breath because, wow, he can't believe he's done this. 

Steve looks at him. "A date?"

"Yeah, you know, when two people who like each other go out to dinner, maybe catch a movie ..."

"I know what a date is, Buck."

"So, I'm asking you out ... or not?" He's suddenly uncertain that Steve _wants_ to go out with him. "I thought --"

Steve must catch the doubt in his voice because he sets the drawing down and comes over to Bucky's chair and kneels in front of it. "Yes! Of course, I want to go out with you." Steve rises up and Bucky lifts him so that he's sitting in Bucky's lap, facing him. He takes Bucky's face in his hands and kisses him. "Why wouldn't I?"

"You could do better?"

"Geez, Buck. Do you think I have a social calendar?" He tilts his head. "Honestly, how could I do better than the guy who saved my life? And in case you think it's just gratitude, you're an idiot. Look at you! You're perfect."

Bucky gives a bitter laugh, "Your mirror and mine have totally different reflections."

"Take me out and prove me wrong," Steve challenges. 

Bucky isn't about to back down now that he's committed to proceeding. "Fine. I will. You, me. Tomorrow night. Does that sound okay?

"Perfect." Steve kisses Bucky again, his fingers twining through Bucky's silky hair. Steve tastes like sugar and a bit salty from the chips he had been nibbling on. 

"You taste so good, Stevie," he sighs. His head tips back and Steve's lips move along his jaw and down his throat. He licks and sucks softly, making Bucky's pulse jump and throb. 

"We haven't had our first date," he whispers. "What kind of girl do you take me for?" He can feel Steve shaking with laughter. "Punk."

"You want me to stop?" Steve's cheeks are flushed, his lips red and full. Bucky nips his lower lip lightly. 

"I want tomorrow to be special — for both of us — and your ribs will be better for another twenty-four hours rest."

"That's a lame excuse if I ever heard one," Steve objects. He reluctantly pulls away from Bucky. "It's late. You should get some sleep."

"Am I gonna need it?"

Steve laughs. "If you're lucky." He tugs gently at Bucky's hair, teasing him and Bucky wants nothing more than to tackle Steve and kiss him senseless, which wouldn't be the best thing for either of them right now. He is tired, and 5am comes way too early. 

^*^*^*^*^*^*^

His shift at Natasha's seems to last forever. He wants every customer to be his last, every sale he rings to be the closing sale. Even Darcy, Natasha's pastry chef, who isn't exactly known to live in the moment, notices his distraction after he gets the third order in a row wrong and has to remake it for the annoyed customer.

She steps in front of him, her hands on her hips. "Are you okay? You're kind of distracted."

"I'm fine." He can feel his cheeks heat up. "Really."

"C'mon, you can tell Aunt Darcy." 

"Don't you have some scones to make?" he asks irritably.

"Do I have to go to Natasha?"

"No!" He runs his hand through his hair, shoving it out of his eyes. "Okay, I have a date."

"Really?" Darcy squeaks with delight. "That's great! Who's the lucky guy? Please, please, please tell me it's Steve!"

"How the fuck do you know these things?" he scowls.

"Aww, sweetie, if you'd open your eyes you'd know that he looks at you like he wants to eat you up. He's obviously over the moon for you."

"Okay, yes. I asked him out on a date."

"When?" Darcy is practically dancing with delight, which is a distraction in itself. 

"Yesterday." Bucky knows he's being snarky and deliberately obtuse, but he really doesn't want to talk about it.

"God, Barnes. You're such an idiot. When is the date?"

"Tonight."

"Ha!" She punches him lightly on the shoulder. "No wonder you're distracted. You should get out of here, get all spiffed up, and take your guy out."

"I've got an hour in my shift, and I've missed enough work. Natasha is starting to wonder why she hired me." He steps out of Darcy's reach. "Scones," he orders. The hour still passes much too slowly.

He flees before anybody can stop him when his shift is over, tossing a quick good-bye to Natasha over his shoulder on his way out the door. He gets home to find a note from Steve. _Went out with Clint. Back in time for the big event._ He's drawn a silly cartoon of himself and Clint with a string tied around their wrists like kids at the zoo, that makes Bucky laugh. 

He's glad that Steve is out so he can have his own freak-out in solitude. He calls Sam, hoping that will settle his nerves. God, he's not sixteen. Why is he so edgy?

"Wilson." 

"You sound busy," Bucky says, half- hoping that Sam will confirm that so he doesn't feel like a fool for being afraid to go on a damn date. 

"I'm not with a patient, so I've got all the time in the world for you.What's up, man?"

"Sam, I asked Steve out on a date."

"Good." Not even a hint of hesitation.

"I feel like a teenager."

"Even better." Bucky can hear Sam's smile. "So, what's wrong?"

"I'm … It's been a long time since I've been with anybody. A long time since I wanted to be with anybody. What if I can't do it?"

"Whoa … you know there's no pressure to do anything you're not ready to do? I've met Steve, and trust me, that boy doesn't want to hurt you in any way. If being intimate freaks you out, tell him."

"I'm afraid I'll disappoint him."

"You won't disappoint him, James. Don't force yourself to be any different than you are. Steve cares about you. That's all that matters."

"What if that's not enough? I mean I'm calling my therapist for dating advice … pretty lame, huh? He sounds like he's on the verge of tears, and swallows hard. 

"You just stop it right there, y'hear me? Steve knows what he wants, and that sure as hell seems to be you, flaws and all."

"Well, there's plenty of those." He sighs, feeling somewhat less inclined to sob or bolt. "Thanks, Sam."

"You know you _are_ supposed to have a good time on a date, right?"

Bucky mutters under his breath and Sam laughs. "James, you and Steve go out and enjoy tonight for what it is. A first date. Not a ride to the guillotine.You got that?"

"Yes, sir. I do." 

"Barnes, one of these days you're going to make me need therapy, ya know?" He says it with fond amusement. "Trust yourself, trust Steve. It'll be fine."

 _It is fine_. Bucky showers and picks out a dark blue long sleeved dress shirt and pale gray slacks. He calls Florentino's and makes reservations, then looks to see what's playing at the vintage cinema down the block from the restaurant. _Casablanca_. Good, nothing that will trigger his PTSD. He buys the tickets online. 

He forces himself to sit down and watch a college football game with two teams he knows nothing about, to keep his anxiety level low, and waits for Steve. He hears Steve and Clint on the stairs and opens the door for them. Steve is carrying shopping bags from several stores and Clint is looking smug. 

"Took you long enough," Bucky comments. 

"We were on a mission," Clint replies. "We had important stuff to do."

"I smell coffee and cinnamon."

"Shopping is hard work, man. We needed sustenance."

"Ha-ha. Very funny."

"I'm serious, dude. Right, Steve?" He calls down the hall where Steve has disappeared into the bedroom. "Kids." He shrugs. "You two have a good evening." His smirk tells Bucky that his idea of a good evening is not necessarily the same as Bucky's, who just wants to make it through the evening without disasters. "Seriously, Barnes. Stop thinking that the evening is going to sink like the Titanic." 

Bucky can't help it, he laughs out loud. "God, Barton, I don't know how Coulson puts up with you."

"Honestly? Neither do I." He winks at Bucky, taps him lightly on his good shoulder. "Don't do anything I wouldn't do, which pretty much leaves your options wide open." Then, mercifully, he leaves. 

Bucky feels like a whirlwind has disrupted his life. He gets a glass of water and takes an ibuprofen to keep the pain in his shoulder to a dull roar. He won't take anything stronger lest he face-plant into his pasta at dinner. When he turns around, he nearly drops the glass. 

Steve is wearing a sky-blue sweater with a red and white windowpane plaid shirt showing at the collar and cuffs. The sweater broadens his shoulders and the dark blue dress slacks fit him perfectly. His hair has a bit of gel in it to spike it up slightly. "Is this okay?" he asks Bucky.

"You look … it's a good look, Stevie."

"You look good, too." 

They stand awkwardly for a moment, then Steve comes up to Bucky and kisses him lightly. "So, what's this date thing gonna be?"

Bucky kisses him back, just a brush of lips. "I made dinner reservations at Florentino's, and then we'll go to a showing of _Casablanca_ at the theater down the street. Does that sound okay?"

"Yeah, it sounds real nice, Buck." 

"Our reservations are at six-thirty. Thanks to your little expedition with Clint — which is totally worth it, by the way — we should leave now."

"Let me do one thing … " Steve takes Bucky's shirt by the collar and kisses him. He tastes like cinnamon and mint. His tongue parts Bucky's lips and Bucky can't help it, he yields with a moan and lets Steve explore his mouth until he's trembling and close to collapsing right here on his kitchen floor. "Steve …" he manages to gasp. 

Steve steps away, his lips swollen and luscious. His eyes are a little dazed, his cheeks flushed. "Okay. Now we can go on that date."

^*^*^*^*^*^*^

Once out in the cold air, Bucky feels like he can breathe again, that he's back on solid ground. Steve is walking next to him, his shoulder brushing against Bucky's arm. It's too cold to talk, and Bucky doesn't want Steve breathing in the cold air and making his lungs seize up. After a block, he hails a cab, overriding Steve's protests about the cost. 

"I can afford it, but you can't afford coughing up a lung, not with your ribs still healing," Bucky reminds him as they get inside. 

"I'm not made of glass, Buck."

"No, but you're only flesh and bone. I know all about that, so stop griping." He softens his words by laying an arm over Steve's shoulders so he can't help but let Bucky draw him closer to his warmth.

The restaurant is in the lower level of a 19th century building. The walls are decorated with murals that look like old frescos of Tuscany. The tables are covered in red and white checked tablecloths. Candles stuck in raffia covered chianti bottles give each table an intimate glow. 

Bucky, who usually feels hemmed in and alarmed by close quarters, finds himself oddly calm; whether from the non-threatening atmosphere or Steve's presence, he doesn't know, it just feels right. 

They order and eat, making easy conversation — mostly about work, but somehow they wind up talking about the times before. The time before Bucky went to war, the time before Steve's mom died. Bucky tells Steve about growing up in Brooklyn with his sister, Becca, his New Age mom, and his hero cop father. 

"Your mom was a hippie?" Steve asks, looking incredulous.

"Yeah, go figure. She met my dad when he arrested her at a sit-in. She was only fifteen, so he couldn't ask her out for three years. They got married a few months after her eighteenth birthday. Becca was born a year later, and two years after that, I came along. Things were pretty good until my dad died. Even though the NYPD raised enough for college funds for Becca and me, my mom didn't exactly have a grasp on how much it cost to raise two teenagers. That's why I never went. I thought I'd use the GI Bill to fund my college. Three and a half tours later, here I am."

He hopes the bitterness doesn't taint his voice. He hopes Steve will change the subject. Steve's warm hand covers his. "I'm glad you're here," he says simply. Bucky is grateful that the waiter chooses that moment to arrive with the bill. Steve's hand leaves his, but the warm remains.

They've both seen _Casablanca_ on television, but not in the theater. Steve leans against Bucky and Bucky puts his arm around Steve's shoulders. I the dark theater, nobody comments or even seems to notice them. After the show, Bucky finds a cab to take them home. 

When they're inside, they flop down on the couch with almost identical sighs of pleasure. Steve gives Bucky a look from beneath his long lashes. "That was the best first date."

"Yeah, it was pretty good." He smiles, pleased and relieved that the night hadn't imploded, as he had feared. "What's up?" he asks when Steve is uncharacteristically quiet. 

"Buck, did you mind talking in the restaurant? You looked so sad."

"No, it was okay. Sam says I need to work on talking about it to people in social situations. He says that will help me deal with what happened." Then because he doesn't want to go back to the subject, he says, "I'm gonna get out of these clothes before I ruin them." He starts working slowly with the buttons. He gives Steve a sheepish look. "I never thought about doing this before I lost the arm."

"Let me," Steve reaches for the buttons on Bucky's shirt. He starts unbottoning them. His breath brushes Bucky's clavicle as the shirt falls open. He slides his palm over Bucky's chest, and leans in for a tentative kiss. "Can I touch you?"

Bucky's heart starts going a mile a minute. "There's a lot of scars," he says quietly. 

"Do they hurt?"

Bucky shakes his head. "No. But they're ugly; they _feel_ ugly."  


Steve just bites his lip in concentration as he moves his hand across Bucky's chest to where the smooth skin yields to rough. He reads the scars like a blind man does Braille, pausing when his palm touches Bucky's shoulder. "Please?" he asks. "I'd like to touch your arm."

Bucky's throat is so swollen he can hardly speak. "Steve ... nobody touches me there except the doctors. It's so ugly, so incomplete." He can't look Steve in the eyes. If he does, he'll cry. 

"There is nothing about you that's ugly to me," Steve says softly. "You're beautiful." 

Bucky closes his eyes. "You can touch me." He's trembling. He's afraid to breathe. Steve's hand moves from his shoulder to what's left of Bucky's arm. His fingers feather down the truncated biceps. "What can you feel?"

Bucky opens his eyes."A little pressure, the warmth of your fingertips."

Wide-eyed, Steve nods. He doesn't look away as his palm cups the end of the stump. He doesn't say anything for a moment. "It's not as rough as I thought it would be."

"No. The scars are from the original wound, not the amputation. They cleaned it up so if I wanted a prosthetic arm there would be less irritation." 

Steve sighs and presses a kiss on the stump through the fabric of Bucky's shirt. "Thank you."

"Why are you thanking me?"

"Because you trusted me," Steve says. He strokes a knuckle down Bucky's cheek. His eyes are so blue, so clear. 

Bucky brings his arm around Steve's waist. "Just because I've got one arm doesn't mean I can't carry you into the bedroom."

Steve gives him a warm smile. "That sounds like a great idea." 

Bucky lifts him, and Steve wraps his legs around Bucky's waist, laughing as Bucky carries him down the hall to the bedroom. 

^*^*^*^*^*^*^  
Their dress clothes litter the floor, Steve's blue sweater is crumpled over his shirt and Bucky's gray slacks. Steve lies curled next to Bucky, one arm slung carelessly over Bucky chest. Bucky traces down the slight curvature in Steve's spine, moves lightly over his ribs — a touch so gentle that he doesn't wake. He's a miracle, Bucky thinks. After the gentle intimacy of Steve's touch, so much more than the impersonal examinations by doctors and medical personnel, Bucky had stripped off his shirt, letting Steve look at the scars, the amputation, and instead of horror, or turning away, he had laid Bucky down and worshipped every part of him. 

It was more than Bucky could imagine, more than he deserved. But he's here, with Steve. His soul as naked as his body. It's like he's emergening from a self-imposed exile. 

He wants to live. He wants every day of that life to be with Steve. He sighs, his eyes heavy now. The shift of his body rouses Steve enough for him to murmur. "'Night, Buck."

"Night, Steve." He can't keep his eyes open, and for the first time in years, he doesn't fight it.

**TBC**


	9. Parts One and Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Emotional melt-downs, reconciliations, and a disaster.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I couldn't add a part without deleting the previous one, so I've re-edited and posted Chapter Nine in its entirety. 
> 
> If you're following this story, I hope you read the complete chapter! If not, you'll realize it when you start Chapter 10 and go WTF? 
> 
> No real warnings on this chapter. There is a non-explicit traumatic event at the end of the chapter.

Chapter 9

The cold wakes Steve up. Bucky's side of the bed still holds residual warmth, but the air outside that small space beneath the covers feels unnaturally cold. Steve sits up clutching the blanket to his chest. Bucky comes into the bedroom. He's already fully dressed in a thick cable-knit sweater and jeans. He tosses some clothes over to Steve. "The heat's out. Better get dressed."

"How long has it been out?"

"Two hours. The crap boiler probably died. It was out for a week last winter. You're coming to work today, even if all you do is wipe down tables. I don't want you to be alone in the cold." 

There is something off about Bucky, and Steve can't quite put his finger on it. Being Steve, he has to ask, "What's wrong?"

Bucky doesn't look at him as he shoves his feet into his boots and pulls the velcro straps across his ankles. "To start with, the boiler's out, remember? It's fucking cold, and we can't live without heat in January."

Steve shrugs into his sweater and a hoodie. "That's not it," he says when he emerges from the muffling cloth. He stands, pulls on his jeans and struggles with his socks. He hisses, just a small sound, but Bucky is suddenly kneeling in front of him. 

"Let me help," he says. He slides Steve's socks over his ankles and tugs on his boots. "I can't tie them."

Steve captures his hand. "I can get the laces, Buck. What's wrong? Last night — I thought —"

Buck sits on the bed next to Steve, his head bowed. "Last night was great, Stevie. But the reality this is what happens in the morning when I can't tie my boots, and I feel like I'm ninety years old because the cold gets into every broken part of me. It's one thing to look at me in the shadows of night, another thing entirely to see the scars and this …" He gestures to the pinned-up sleeve of his sweater. 

Steve feels a swell of anger. "You're an idiot if you think daylight shows me somebody different than what you were last night. You can't shove me away, because that's not who I am. Maybe it's time to look in the mirror and see that that person you were three years ago might as well have died in Afghanistan, because this … this," He takes hold of Bucky's vestigial biceps, "This is your life now, and that life includes me, for better or worse."

Bucky looks like Steve just slapped him. "You don't know what the fuck my life was three years ago. You don't get to tell me what's better or what's worse. You don't know what it is to have that life ripped away in a second and wake up different — and see how people look at you, like you're some kind of fucking freak."

"Yeah, I don't know what that's like because it's kind of been my life. I was always small, always the kid with the crooked back and the crap lungs. Talk about being a freak. I was the kid boys like you tormented and bullied, so don't expect any pity from me, Bucky Barnes. I've lived with this longer than you have, and you know what? I'm not a soldier, but I'm still fighting." He finishes dressing, throws on his coat, hat and scarf. "I'll see you at work."

He closes the door with a finality that no slam could achieve.

^*^*^*^*^*^*^  
Bucky spends the next twenty minutes hanging over the toilet bowl, his stomach heaving even when there's nothing but bile to bring up. He finally gathers enough energy to clean up, change his sweat-soaked sweater for a fresh one, and make his way up the stairs to the super's apartment. He bangs on the door. "Hey, Mr. Levitsky, when's the boiler gonna be fixed?"

Levitsky opens the door. He's a heavyset man in his sixties with an unlit cigar persistently hanging from his mouth and a sour expression. "I've got a call in to a plumber. Says he'll be out in an hour. So, maybe tonight, maybe tomorrow. There's your answer, soldier boy."

Bucky's hand curls into a fist. "Don't call me that, ever." He turns on his heel and heads out into the cold. It's only 7am and he's already alienated his boyfriend, nearly punched out his super, heaved his guts out, and achieved a full-blown migraine. It's official: he's lost the day.

He gets to work and takes three Excedrin Migraine before he steps out on the floor. Steve is pouring regular coffees while Natasha is on the Pavoni pulling espresso drinks. She looks up when Bucky slips behind the counter. "It's about time, James."

"Sorry, I had to see the super about our boiler issue. It might not be fixed for a couple days. I was wondering if Steve and I could use the upstairs flat."

It's Natasha's _pied a terre_ , but she isn't stingy about loaning it out. She sighs. "Of course." She casts a fond look at Steve. "He shouldn't be out in the cold."

"Whereas I can sleep in the alley," Bucky says, a little bitter and maybe feeling a twinge of jealousy that Natasha thought of Steve first. 

"Keep that up, and maybe you will," Natasha arches a brow. "You. Office. Now. I'll send Darcy out to do the espressos."

Bucky sits in Natasha's office and waits. His head is throbbing dully. Natasha comes in with a mug of coffee, creamy with milk and a muffin. He wants to cry at her kindness. "Thank you."

"What's going on with you and Steve?"

"God, Nat. How do you know these things?"

She rolls her eyes. "I'm a woman. I know when there's something wrong with two people who love each other."

"I don't —"

"Don't even go there, James. Lying to me and to yourself is a bad sign. Tell me what you did and I'll tell you if it's unforgivable or just a pebble in your shoe."

Bucky delays by taking a bite of muffin and sipping his coffee. His blood sugar was tanked and the caffeine slowly eases its way along his nerves to ease his headache. Natasha waits more patiently than she needs to, for which he is very grateful.

"It's all me, not Steve. He's … the best guy I've ever known. But he scares me, Nat. I'm never gonna be good enough for him. He deserves somebody who can give him more than I can."

"Maybe I ought to be the one making that decision." Steve speaks up from the doorway. 

Natasha stands up. "I believe that's my cue to leave." She rises gracefully, kisses Bucky on the cheek, and touches Steve lightly on the arm. 

Steve takes two steps and Bucky can't help it, he opens his arm and gathers Steve to his chest. "I'm so sorry, Stevie."

"No, I hurt you. I never meant to compare my life to yours. That was wrong. I'm not a soldier, I've never been one, I've never put my life on the line for anybody and nearly died for doing it."

Bucky rests his head on Steve's shoulder. "I'm in love with you. I hurt you. Some hero I am."

"You're my hero, you big jerk." Steve laughs tearily. "I love you , too." 

They hold on to each other until Darcy leans into the office. "Okay, guys. Stop necking and get your asses out here. Rush hour is upon us."

Bucky groans. "Oh, God save us. Darcy knows."

"I think she knew before we did."

"It's only a matter of time before all of New York knows." 

"So what? I'm not afraid."

Bucky ruffles Steve's hair. "Punk."

Steve snorts. "Yeah, I know." He pulls Bucky in for a quick, hard kiss. Bucky still feels a little dazed by how quickly his day, and his mood, have turned around. It's dizzying, but in the best way.

 

_End Part One_

Part Two

Natasha practically pushes Steve and Bucky off the sales floor as soon as Jane and her shadow, Thor, arrive. She hands Bucky the key to the upstairs flat. "I worry about you, James." Her voice is soft, and for a moment, Bucky feels his eyes blur with tears. 

He blinks them away, and turns to Steve. "Want to take a look?" 

"Buck, I don't think we need to hide. So I got a threatening note — doesn't mean they'll do anything."

Bucky hates that Steve doesn't think this is serious. He's not willing to let him shrug this off. "It's a risk you shouldn't take."

"These guys are bullies. I've never backed down from a bully in my life."

"So you end up with cracked ribs and a concussion? Sorry, not buying that. Come on, let's see the flat before you get all shirty about it."

Steve laughs. "Does anybody use that word? Seriously?" 

Bucky gives him a look that makes Steve take a step back. His jaw juts stubbornly, but he yields. "Okay, I'll look at it, but no promises."

The flat is larger than Steve expects. It's clean, bright, and well-furnished, with a double bed in a curtained-off alcove, a pocket-sized bathroom and a minimal, but adequate kitchen. Steve sighs. "How long will we have to stay here?"

Bucky sighs. "Not we. You."

Steve blinks at him. "Alone?"

"Yeah. Obviously, if I'm at my apartment and you're not, they can't go after you. Nobody knows about this place."

"I _work_ here!" Steve objects. "What happens if they decide they'll do something here?"

"Natasha has friends. Not the kind you need to know about, but ones who watch out for her. You're safe here."

"I'm safe with you," Steve looks abandoned and annoyed all at the same time. 

Bucky puts his hand on Steve's shoulder. "You _feel_ safe with me. Look at me, Steve. I can take care of myself, but I can't take care of both of us. It would kill me if I couldn't protect you. I'd lay down my life for you, no problem, but I can't promise I can save yours."

Steve leans his head on Bucky's chest. Sometimes he forgets how small Steve is. His bones feel sharp under his hands, but he's got the heart of a warrior. "Okay, let's get my stuff. I'm still not happy about this," he sighs. 

^*^*^*^*^*^*^  
The walk home has the hair rising on Bucky's neck. He can't shake the feeling they're being watched, but he can't spot anybody who stands out from the usual pedestrian traffic. Maybe it's just his paranoia going on high alert. 

The walk home has the hair rising on Bucky's neck. He can't shake the feeling they're being watched, but he can't spot anybody who stands out from the usual pedestrian traffic. Maybe it's just his paranoia going on high alert. Maybe not, he thinks. 

There is a panel van parked outside the apartment building; Ace/Acme "The Best Plumbers in Town," or so they say. At least they're here to fix the boiler. He and Steve go down the stairs. Bucky checks the locks. They seem secure, but he isn't taking any chances. He opens the door cautiously.

"I don't think there's a land mine in there," Steve whispers, making Bucky startle. "Sorry."

Bucky gives him a sheepish smile. "I always check," he says. "You know what they say about valor and discretion. Go get your stuff." He still can't shake the feeling that something's off about this. He types Ace/Acme into his smart phone. It doesn't come up. This isn't good. "Hurry up, Steve." 

He goes to his room and throws clothes into a gym bag, grateful that he doesn't have much. He gathers up his files with his discharge papers and medical records, plus the small amount of cash he keeps on hand and stuffs them in the bag."Let's go!"

Steve emerges with his backpack and the small portfolio of his artwork he's produced since moving in with Bucky. He looks puzzled and aggravated. "What's the rush?"

Bucky thrusts his phone at Steve. "This." 

Steve reads it and his eyes widen. "You don't think —"

"Get out. Just get out!" Bucky shoves Steve. "Pull the fire alarm and get away from here."

"Buck, I'm not going anywhere without you —"

"Fuck that, Stevie. I _need_ you to call 911. Get the cops over here."

Steve grabs his arm. "Promise you'll be right behind me. Promise!"

"I promise." Bucky's eyes are wide and filling with tears. "Just get out of here Stevie. Please." He kisses him once, hard. "Go. I'll meet you at the corner." He thrusts his bag into Steve's hands. 

Steve can't argue. He runs out the door. A moment later, the fire alarm sounds. Bucky runs up the stairs and starts knocking on doors, and shouting for people to get out of the building. Most of the tenants are at work, but there are still some elderly neighbors who need help. 

A door opens and a tiny, wizened woman peers out at him. "Is this a drill? Because if it is, I'm goin' to complain about this. Why'd that damn fool supervisor schedule it in the dead of —"

"Please, Mrs. Kasparov, this isn't a drill. Come on, I'll help you. I promise." Bucky has his arm around her fragile waist. "Just walk out with me and the police and firemen will take good care of you." He holds out her coat, helps her put it on, and walks her down the stairs. 

He's about to head back up when he smells the gas. He runs down the halls, pounding on doors. "Gas leak! You need to get out NOW!" He makes it to the third floor when the smell starts making him ill. He retches up the small amount of food he ate. He doesn't think there is anybody in the building until he hears a child's voice calling for help.

"Where are you?" Bucky yells. 

"Here! Here!" He runs down the hall until he reaches the right apartment. 

"Can you open the door?"

"No. My mom locked it."

"Okay, kid. Don't worry and stand back."

Bucky eyes the jamb. If it's as old as his, it should splinter easily. He steps back, braces himself and kicks hard against the weakest point. The impact jars his knee, but the wood splinters. He finds himself looking down at a small, tear-stained face. "What's your name?"

"Yusuf."

"Okay, Yusuf. Take my hand. Don't let go until I tell you and try not to breathe." He finds a dishtowel and ties it around Amir's nose and mouth. He takes the boy's hand and they hurry down the hall to the stairs.

He kneels down; his chest hurts and his shoulder is throbbing. "Go across the street, Yusuf. You'll be fine." He tries to breathe in some fresh air. He's dizzy. He hopes everybody is out of the building. He's halfway across the street when there is an enormous BOOM, and the building explodes behind him. 

The concussion fells Bucky. He feels heat and flame at his back and pellets of rubble pelting him. He buries his face in the crook of his arm, covering as much of his head as he can and curls tightly into a ball. Then there is nothing; only the dark.

_TBC_


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve doesn't let anybody push him around, Natasha is awesome. There is a rescue, and worries, and good drugs. The time for questions is coming. 
> 
> No warnings, really, though a building collapse is involved. I do my research, but I'm not a doctor or medical professional.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NOTE: I figure you all deserved to have this posted today instead of waiting for tomorrow. It seemed like the natural place for a break before Chapter 11. It's a short chapter, but 11 promises to be longer with a lot happening.

Chapter 10

Steve watches in horror as the gas explosion sends a plume of fire and debris from the front of the apartment. "Bucky!" he screams, and starts across the street. A fireman grabs his arm. Steve tries to shake free, but the man firms up his grip, forcing Steve to look at him. 

"Son, you can't go over there. It's too dangerous. We've got to seal off the leak and deal with the fire, first."

"You don't understand! My friend -- he was just coming out of the building when it blew up! He's somewhere --" Steve tries to see around the bulk of the fireman, but the man is too tall, and too wide in his heavy gear. "Please --" he chokes. "You've got to find him."

A little boy runs up to Steve. "He sent me across the street. He was right behind me. He saved me! Please, mister. You have to find him."

Whether it is because Yusuf is a child, or because they've convinced him that Bucky is alive and has to be saved, the fireman nods. "Okay, we'll take a look. But you both gotta stay here. If you don't, I'll have to have the police detain you."

Steve nods and holds Yusuf by the shoulders. He kneels to get to Yusuf's height. "Where's your mom?" he asks. Yusuf's eyes fill with tears. "She went to the bodega for milk and bread." He looks down the street towards the corner where a woman is running towards them, her hijab flapping in the wind. 

"Mama!" Yusuf calls out. "Mama, I'm here!" He waves his skinny arms, and his mother rushes over. She speaks to him in an language Steve doesn't recognize, then looks at him. "You save my son?"

Steve shakes his head. "No, James Barnes saved him."

Her hand covers her mouth. "James? The man with one arm? He is a good man." Something in his face must give him away because her eyes widen. "He is missing?"

Steve nods, but he is distracted by a flurry of activity around the fire trucks. He hurries over to the closest group. "What's happening?"

"The gas is shut off, and the fires are out. Where did you say your friend was?"

Steve looks at the field of bricks and debris that extend from the front of the building to halfway across the street. It looks like most of the facade of the building has collapsed there. "I'm not sure. Maybe by the curb … I just saw him, and then the explosion happened and when I looked up, I couldn't see him."

The fireman speaks into his radio, ordering a team of firefighter and asking the police for help in locating survivors. He looks at Steve. "You should get out of the cold. It's a slow process, but we'll work as fast as we can."

Steve hasn't noticed how cold it is. He's shivering, but he doesn't feel cold. His phone vibrates in his pocket. He looks at it. _Natasha_. "Hello?" he answers, but before he can say another word, Natasha interrupts.

"Thank God, Steve! It's all over the news. What happened? Where's James? Are you okay?"

Steve feels numb. "There was a gas leak and an explosion. I'm okay, but … God, Natasha. Bucky was being a hero and kept looking for people in the building to get them out. He was running out of the front door when it exploded. Natasha, he's missing. There's this pile of bricks and the fire department is trying to clear it. Natasha?"

She's disconnected, and he's pretty sure she's on her way right now. He can't look away from the scene. He can't help envisioning Bucky under the bricks and trash. "Be alive, Bucky, just be alive," he whispers to himself. "Nothing else matters. Just be alive."

He's still whispering when Natasha finds him. She's followed by Thor and Darcy, each carrying trays of coffee and boxes of pastry and sandwiches that they start distributing to the group of shivering survivors, firefighters and cops. She hands a cup to Steve. "Drink this," she commands. "You look like a ghost."

"I'm fine," and then he explodes in frustration. "I want to help! I can't stand here and watch." 

Natasha grabs his arm. "Steve, you have to let the experts clear the site. A bunch of amateurs could bring everything down no matter how good their intentions are."

Steve knows she's right. He's not thinking logically; he's thinking with his heart, and all his impetuous and determined instincts are like raw wires sparking unreasonable actions. He wilts and watches as the firefighters bring in huge vapor lights to illuminate the site. A K-9 unit comes in with one of their dogs to aid in the search. Steve forgets the cold, forgets everything but focusing on the activity. He hears a firefighter give a shout at the same time the dog starts pawing at the rubble and emitting small, excited barks. Suddenly all the activity halts. The silence is almost eerie. The firefighter waves. "We've got somebody here!"

Natasha is gripping Steve's arm so tightly that he'll have bruises the next day. He takes her hand and holds it in his as they watch everybody begin a tentative, slow-moving excavation of the rubble. It seems to take forever. An EMS team hurries to the scene. Slowly, agonizingly, they pull a body from the rubble. 

Steve can't stand it any more, he breaks Natasha's hold and dodges under the yellow caution tape. He stands, his chest heaving as he struggles for breath. He strains to see past the wall of firefighters and paramedics. He gives a frustrated little cry and works his way closer. Nobody is paying attention to him; everybody is focused on the rescue. He finally finds an opening. He doesn't want to hamper the rescue, but he _has_ to see. It might not be Bucky. It could be somebody else; he knows that. He can't help dreading and hoping. He sees two paramedics with a backboard kneeling and reaching for the person being slowly, excruciatingly extracted from the rubble. 

He sees dark hair matted with dust and blood. An arm in a torn, dark sleeve, scraped and covered in white dust. A long leg, that the medics rush to splint. Steve's heart is pounding so hard that he's shaking. He can't breathe. They wouldn't splint the leg of a dead person … Finally, one of the fireman gives a thumbs-up and the crowd explodes in cheers. Steve can't stay back. He pushes his way through, shoving aside men twice his size. 

"Son," one of them says and Steve can't take it anymore. 

"I'm not your son. That man on the stretcher is my best friend, James Barnes. There, I've ID'd him for you. Now, I'm going to see him because he saved my life." Steve knows he isn't the biggest guy in the world, but his mother hadn't called him her stubborn hero for nothing. 

The firefighter gives him a hard look, but he yields way and speaks to one of the paramedics. Steve can finally, finally, see Bucky. He's unconscious, covered in dust and blood from cuts and abrasions. Steve doesn't care. He just wants to touch him. The paramedics lift the backboard to a gurney. Steve strokes the back of Bucky's hand. "C'mon, you can wake up now, you stupid hero. God, Buck. I love you." He kisses Bucky's forehead, and doesn't care who sees him. "Bucky?"

Bucky's eyelids quiver, then open slightly, his fingers move against Steve's. He can't speak, but the pressure on Steve's fingers tightens. Then he's gone again. 

"We've got to get him to the hospital."

"Which one?"

"St. Vincent's. You know where that is?"

Steve sighs. "Yeah, been there a few times myself." Natasha finds him and bends over the gurney. She kisses Bucky's forehead and murmurs something in Russian. She turns back to Steve. 

"I'm driving." 

^*^*^*^*^*^*^  
Steve is far too familiar with the emergency room at St. Vincent's both as a patient and as a family member. His mother, during the course of her cancer treatments, had been admitted through the ER frequently. Steve, with his dicey lungs and heart murmur has been there so often that he knows the nurses by their first names. 

He sits with Natasha and listens to the quiet wheezing of his lungs. The one thing he should have remembered to snatch up, his inhaler, he'd forgotten. Natasha is holding his hand. Her skin is soft, her touch comforting. Steve is very grateful she's there and he's not waiting alone. "Are you all right?" she asks. 

"Yeah. I just want to see Bucky, you know? We've been here a long time." They'd only caught a glimpse of him as the paramedics rushed him through the ER to the treatment area behind the desk. The nurse said she would let them know when there was news. So far, nothing. Steve buries his face in his hands. Natasha rubs his back.

"When was the last time you ate?"

He shakes his head. "Breakfast, I guess. I don't think I can eat anything."

Natasha digs through her purse and hands him a protein bar. "You need to eat, Steven." She gets up and buys a cup of dreadful vending machine cocoa. 

"Thanks." The cocoa is way too sweet, but it's hot. The protein bar tastes like chocolate flavored cardboard. He chews it methodically and sips at the cocoa. After a few minutes, he admits he feels marginally better. Natasha pats his shoulder. 

"I'm going to see if there's any news." 

Steve thinks that if there were, they would have been called over, but he understands Natasha's restlessness. She needs something to do; he needs to hear good news. Natasha returns and sits back down. She combs her fingers through her red hair and sighs. "No news."

"You know the saying, right?" He tries to muster a wan smile. He gets up and wanders over to the doorway. It's dark and it looks cold. There is a light dusting of snow on the windshields of the cars in the parking lot. He's trying hard not to think that he's lost everything again. The clothes in his backpack, the single sketchpad … that's all he has to his name. The one thing he can't replace is how he feels about Bucky. He traces lines down the window, pressing lightly with his fingertips They leave small blurs of condensation on the glass. 

"Steve?" Natasha taps his shoulder. "We can see Bucky for a few minutes before they take him up to ICU."

Steve's heart drops like a stone. "ICU?"

"Let's find out what's happening before you panic, okay?" She links her arm through his. "Come on, let's see our boy."

They go through the door to the treatment area where a doctor is waiting. He looks up. "You're James Barnes' family?"

Natasha doesn't blink. "We're the closest he has to family." Steve notices she doesn't reference Bucky's sister. It makes sense with her in California. What could she do for him?

"Are you Steve? He's been asking for you."

It takes Steve's breath away for a moment. He pulls himself together. "He's conscious?"

"Yes, for a while now. Physically, he's stable. He's slightly hypothermic, badly bruised, and has a number of lacerations that have to be cleaned out. His most serious injuries are a collapsed lung, that responded well to treatment, and a possible leg fracture, Basically, for a guy buried under half a ton of rubble, he's very lucky."

"Why is he going to ICU?"

"Primarily for observation to be sure his vitals remain stable and that there isn't any internal bleeding. We also need to keep an eye on his lung to be sure it doesn't collapse again.You can see him for a few minutes before we take him up."

Steve looks at Natasha. "Are you coming?"

"You first," Natasha says. "I'll be in shortly. I want to be sure that his insurance is billed correctly."

It's a ridiculous excuse for a kind action. Steve smiles at her. "You know where I'll be."

He moves the curtain aside. Bucky's eyes are closed. Now that the dust has been cleaned off his face, the dark bruises are stark against his pale skin. There is a laceration on his cheekbone and a rough-looking scrape on his forehead. The hospital gown covers his amputation, but he still looks vulnerable. Steve bends over and kisses his dry lips. "Hey, Buck." 

He can feel the curve of Bucky's mouth against his. "How are you doing?"

Bucky opens his eyes. They are dilated and blurred with narcotics, but Steve has never been happier in his life. "Are you in pain?" he asks. 

Bucky gives him a slightly loopy smile. "They gave me good drugs," he murmurs. "Stevie, you okay?" A frown creases his brow. "Stevie?"

"I'm here." He kisses him again. "I'm okay. Don't worry about me."

Bucky lifts his hand. There are IV tubes taped to it, but he threads it through Steve's hair. "You sure?"

Steve swallows hard. "I'm not the one in the hospital bed, so I'm sure."

"Good." He sighs and his eyes close, then open. "Natasha? Does she know?"

"I know," Natasha speaks from the doorway as she enters the room. "You're in such trouble, James Barnes." The tears in her voice betray her words. "Get better so I can yell at you, okay?"

"Is that an incentive?" he mutters. "Not working so good."

"That's what you get for letting a building fall on top of you." She kisses his forehead. "We'll see you in the morning."

"'kay." He reaches for Steve's hand. "Stay?"

"As long as they'll let us." He looks at Natasha. She must be as tired as he is. "Do you mind?" 

"Of course not. But if I'm driving, I need coffee that doesn't come from a vending machine. I'll be back in a few minutes."

Steve pulls a chair next to the bed and lays his head next to Bucky's. Bucky's arm curls around him. They stay like that, silent and listening to each other breathe. Steve feels Bucky's heart beating under his hand. It's strong and steady, soothing. Bucky's arm relaxes and slides away as the drugs do their work. 

Steve doesn't move until he hears Natasha clear her throat. "They'll take him up to ICU now. We can see him in the morning. They'll take good care of him."

Steve stands up, suddenly so weary that he sways. Natasha's small, strong hand at his back steadies him. "C'mon, Steve. Let's go home."

"I don't have a home," he says. "Just Bucky."

"You're wrong. Come with me." They watch as the orderlies wheel Bucky up to the ICU. Natasha guides him to the car. She drives through the streets to the bakery, parks, and walks him up to the small studio apartment. "See, you have a home."

"Where will you stay?" he asks.

"Tonight? I'll be right here. Go to bed, Steve. You're safe. I promise."

Steve wants to argue that he won't take her bed. He wants to say he's strong enough to take care of himself. He wants to tell her that she doesn't need to be here with him, but he can't. He's tired, his chest hurts, and he's too damn worn out to put up an argument. He cleans up, brushes his teeth and falls into bed. He can see the faint flicker of the TV, the sound nearly indiscernible, and Natasha sitting with her legs curled under her, a glass of water, or possibly vodka in her hand. He pulls the curtains across the alcove, falls into bed, and doesn't even remember his head hitting the pillow.

_TBC_


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bucky has nightmares, Steve has a new place to stay, Sitwell to the rescue. PTSD, angst, humor, Bucky being a badass, even in the hospital. A new character is introduced in a surprise cameo.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Surprise! Chapter 11 is finished and I wanted to post it before it got even longer! I'm a writing demon on this story. As promised, there's plenty of action to go along with the angst, and comfort to go along with the hurt. 
> 
> Warnings for nightmares, PTSD, violence, and Bucky's language. 
> 
> Disclaimer: Not a doctor. Also, posting in haste, so some clean up may be done later.

Chapter 11

Bucky startles awake from a full-blown nightmare that has all the monitors he's hooked up to sounding their alarms. A whole team of critical care professionals rush in, and he can't stop his flight and fight instinct from kicking in. He tears at the various wires and leads, and rips out his IV. Shaking and disoriented, he looks for a weapon and can't find one. His injured leg buckles and he falls to the floor. The nurses try to help him, but Bucky can't let them touch him. They'll drug him and take his other arm. He has to fight them, he can't let them hurt him again. Nothing makes sense to him. Why aren't they in combat uniforms? Why is this place so white and sterile? Where is he? Why won't they just leave him alone? The questions send him into unreasoning panic. Frantically, he looks for a way out of the glass cubicle. He is about to make a blind rush for the door, when he stops, and cries out, backing away from the man in the door. 

He's wearing scrubs and he looks like he plays for the Giants defensive line. He looks threatening. "No!" Bucky wails and cowers in a corner, his hand gripping his dog tags and shaking, just shaking until he slides to the floor, sobbing and gasping for breath.

Instead of assaulting Bucky, the big man crouches down, his hands open and defenseless. "Easy, son, you're okay." Bucky shrinks away, and the doctor continues in a soft voice. "Says on your chart you're a soldier. That true?" His big fingers gently pry Bucky's away from his dog tags so he can read them. "Still got your tags? Me, too." He pulls his own out of his scrubs. "Don't know why I still wear'em. Guess they're like a good luck charm. I reckon I was lucky, huh?" He pulls up his scrub top. His abdomen is a mess of scars. "But it sure took a while to heal up. You know what? This is kinda uncomfortable. I got a bad knee, too, so why don't you let me help you get back on that bed, hmm? We'll take it slow. No rush. Just breathe. I'll do the rest of the work." His voice is gentle, deep and warm. "So, you were a sergeant? Me, too. How about that? I was in the Marines. Looks like you were in the Rangers. _Sua Sponte_ , bro. Right? He keeps talking and Bucky's breathing finally steadies. His shaking becomes an occasional shiver. He clutches the man's wrist. "Who are you?"

"Name's Luke. You're James?" 

"Don't let them amputate my arm." 

For a moment the the man looks alarmed, thinking Bucky's slipped back into the past, then he nods in comprehension. "That was what you were dreaming? That you were gonna lose your other arm?"

Bucky nods and draws a shaky breath. "It was a dream?"

"Yeah, and it sure musta been a doozy. Ready to get up?"

Bucky nods and the man lifts him like he was a baby. He sets him on the bed, smooths the sheets and hold a glass of ice chips to his mouth. While Bucky lets the cool ice soothe his dry throat, the man looks at the wide-eyed nurses. "I got this," he says simply. "You feelin' better now?"

"Maybe." He smiles wanly. "Sorry about that scene."

"Wasn't your fault. I'm going to take your BP and pulse, make sure your lung is okay. Can I do that?"

"Now that I'm awake, sure."

"Do you remember what happened?"

"I remember an explosion and a building falling on me, and … Was anybody else hurt?"

"Some cuts and scrapes, that's it."

"Good." He lies quietly for the exam. The badge on the man's lanyard reads _Dr. Luke Cage_. "Doc, did I have visitors when I came in?"

"A skinny blond dude and a spectacular redhead."

Bucky smiles, remembering. "I'm glad I didn't dream them."

"Friends?"

"The best." 

Dr. Cage finishes the examination. "The worst damage was done when you ripped out that IV. Your BP is good and you're not nauseous, so I'm not putting it back in. No signs of internal bleeding, and I saw the X-rays of your leg. Nothing is broken, but there's some ligament damage that's gonna be a bitch for a while. However, I am going to insist you keep the oxygen on." He fits the cannula on Bucky's face. How's that feel?"

"I can deal with it. Thanks, doc."

"You want something to take the edge off?"

Bucky raises a brow. "Seriously? I think I'll pass."

"Pain level?"

"A four? I'm good."

Cage shakes his head. "If it gets worse, I'll have the nurses give you something. You won't heal if you're in pain. Meanwhile, hang in there, looks like you've been through too damn much already."

Bucky closes his eyes. He really doesn't want to talk about it. "'Night, Doc." He probably won't sleep, but he can pretend with the best of them. He hears Cage leave his bedside and lies thinking about Steve, about Natasha, and about how he really needs to talk to Sitwell about that Ace/Acme plumbing van.

^*^*^*^*^*^*^  
Bucky dozes the rest of the night, and doesn't fall asleep until they move him from the ICU to the medical floor early the next morning. He's still on oxygen, but the only medical monitor he's on is the pulse/ox device clipped to his finger. He's in a private room, which is great, but he really has to talk to Natasha about the cost. 

He sleeps deeply and dreamlessly there, with hustle and bustle of the unit grounding his subconscious in the present; only waking when the sound of the rattling dishes on the lunch carts rouse him. A cheerful nurse brings him lunch -- a boring sandwich, a fruit cup, and milk. He hates milk. The sandwich is more bread than meat, and the fruit is too sweet. 

He's scowling at the tray when Steve walks in. He looks tentative, a little spooked to see Bucky with the cannula. Bucky holds out his hand. "I'm fine. It's scarier that it looks, believe me." Steve's hand is cold, and Bucky kisses it. "Did you walk?"

"No. I love you, Buck, but it's zero freakin' degrees out there. Natasha drove. She's parking." Steve looks around, even though the room is private and there's nobody lurking outside the door before he kisses Bucky. "Mmm. That's better." He pulls back and appraises Bucky. "How are you, really?"

"The good news is, I don't have a broken leg. The bad news is, I don't have a broken leg." He laughs at Steve's puzzled frown. "I tore up some ligaments and my leg is an interesting shade of purple and green from deep bruising. I'll be off my feet for a few days, then in a brace for a while."

"I guess I'll have to get a chair for the register," Natasha speaks from the door. She comes inside, bringing with her the smell of cold air, warm yeast, and ground meat that wafts from the brown paper bag she's carrying. 

" _Pirushka!_ " Bucky exclaims and makes a grabby hand for the bag. "You're a saint, Natasha." 

"That's a first," she replies with a wry smile. "How are you?"

"According to the doctor, better than I have any right to be seeing as I had half a building fall on me." He snatches the bag from Natasha and takes a bite of the still warm pastry, nearly moaning with pleasure. He almost misses the look Natasha and Steve exchange. "What?"

Steve pauses, then continues. "Yeah, about what happened. The media is starting to ask who the hero was who got everybody out of the building before it blew. It's only a matter of time before somebody tells them."

It takes a moment for the implication to sink in. "Crap," He falls back on the pillow and is silent for a moment. "Well, it's no secret I live there. I don't want the publicity, but it won't kill me."

Natasha glares at him. "It nearly did! Obviously, some very dangerous people knew you lived there, with Steve, and that you probably know everything that Steve does. Somebody tried to kill you both."

The monitor starts beeping frantically, as Bucky's heart speeds up. Natasha places a hand on his chest. "I'm sorry, James. I shouldn't have spoken as I did. You need to calm down." 

The thing is, he can't. He can only think of what he would have done if it had been Steve buried in the rubble, and not himself. It had been close, _so_ close! His chest hurts, and he coughs painfully.

Steve holds a glass of water to his lips. "C'mon, Buck, you can breathe through this." He holds Bucky's hand against his heart. "Can you feel me breathe? You can do this."

Bucky keeps his eyes on Steve's and lets his voice wash over him. The monitor subsides into a normal _beep, beep_ , and Bucky is grateful that none of the nurses had come charging through the door to see if he was dying. He looks at Natasha's concerned face.

"I'm okay, but you have to find Steve a safer place, Natasha. He can't stay over the bakery. It's too dangerous for both of you. Maybe Clint or Phil can help."

"I'll take care of it." She takes her phone out of her pocket. "I'll be back in a few minutes."

She leaves, and Steve is so quiet that Bucky asks, "What is it?"

"It's my fault," Steve says quietly. "I shouldn't have dragged you into my life."

Bucky laughs softly. "I kinda think it was the other way around. I'm the one who found you freezing in my doorway." He reaches out and pulls Steve over to the bed. I don't regret it. Not one minute."

"But you've lost _everything_ because of me."

Bucky sighs. "Stevie, that was just stuff, most of it pretty sorry and second hand. I'll miss that picture you drew, though."

"I'll draw another. You're kind of crazy, Buck." He smiles and shakes his head. 

"Well, I did have a building fall on me."

"There is that." Steve leans down and kisses him sweetly. "Don't let it happen again."

"It's not like I 'let' it happen this time." 

They kiss once more, and Natasha clears her throat. "Excuse me, boys. This _is_ a hospital." She grins wickedly. "You're both so sweet, but we really should go, Steve. This one needs his rest."

"This one is fine," Bucky grumps, but his leg hurts and his eyes are getting heavy. "Come back tonight?"

"Of course," Natasha promises. She kisses his forehead. "See you later." She walks out of the room, and Steve kisses Bucky one last time. "Later, I promise."

Bucky is aching to say 'I love you,' but given that somebody's been trying to kill them, it doesn't seem like the best time to declare his feelings. After Steve leaves with one last look at him, Bucky reaches for his phone. He dials the NYPD non-emergency number and asks to speak to Detective Sitwell. 

After a wait, he comes on the line. "Jasper, it's James Barnes."

"Hey, I heard you were in the hospital."

"Yeah. St. Vincent's. Can you come here? I have to talk to you about what happened."

"Sure. I'll be there in two hours?" Bucky can hear him rifling through his calendar, paper, of course. 

"If wouldn't hurt if you could make it sooner. I'm not going anywhere."

"Got it."

Bucky hangs up and closes his eyes. He can get two hours of rest before Sitwell arrives. He might as well take advantage of it. 

Nothing works out the way he planned. Just as he's drifting off, Dr. Cage comes in and tells him he's due for an MRI on his leg so they can see the ligament damage. That takes an hour, and it's exhausting. He hates MRIs; he hates the confined space, being alone, the memories it brings with it. He has to fight off a panic attack at the constant noise and the semi-darkness. When it's over, he feels disoriented and slightly dizzy.

By the time he's back in his room, everything hurts; every bruise on his body seems to have fused into one giant ache. His stump is giving him phantom pain, and his head is throbbing from the MRI. Dr. Cage takes one look at him and orders an infusion pump and pain medication. The nurse inserts the IV and starts instructing him in how to use it.

Bucky sighs. "Been there, done that. I probably know enough about it to instruct other patients."

She blinks at him, sees his arm and says, "Oh. I'm sorry. I start working by rote once in a while. I should have noticed."

Bucky shakes his head. "It's okay. You did a good job." He pushes the button and closes his eyes, waiting for her to leave. The drugs do their work and he can't seem to stay awake. Maybe Sitwell will be late. Maybe he won't mind taking a cat nap himself … 

When he startles awake, the room is in semi-darkness. He raises his bed and looks around. No sign of the detective, and the halls are quiet. It's nearly 7pm. Bucky curses. He stretches for the phone and dials Sitwell. He gets voice mail.

"Umm … Detective? James Barnes here. Sorry I was out of it if you stopped by. We still need to talk. I'm here, and I promise I'll be awake."

A few minutes later, his phone rings. It's Sitwell. "S'all right. I had a case come up. I'll be there ASAP." He hangs up without saying goodbye. 

Bucky pushes his call button and an unfamiliar male nurse comes in. "I'd like to get out of bed to use the bathroom."

"Sure." The nurse pulls back the covers and helps Bucky stand. They walk over to the tiny bathroom, Bucky rolling his IV with him. 

"I'll take it from here," he says, and closes the door. There's a toiletry kit on the sink with toothpaste, a razor, shaving cream and shampoo. He'd love a shower, but Sitwell is on the way. He uses the toilet and washes his hands, then walks his IV pole out the door. 

He should have been on his guard. The "nurse" comes up behind him and loops the IV tubing around Bucky's neck. He acts on instinct, grabbing the IV pole and shoving it hard into the man's arm. He grabs his wrist and twists. Bones grate and crack and the man howls. He manages to grip the tubing and with his good hand starts using it like a garotte on Bucky.. Bucky's reflexes are slowed by drugs and the lack of oxygen. Black spots swim in front of his eyes. His best defense it to collapse and pull the assailant down with him. He lands awkwardly on his injured leg, sending shooting pain into his hip, but he rolls, so he's got the man pinned. He presses his forearm into the man's larynx, and uses his weight to slowly crush it. "Stay still, and I'll let you live. Hell, you might even talk again," he says and likes the way his attacker's eyes widen with fear. They go to a point beyond Bucky's shoulder and the fight goes out of him. 

"Don't shoot! Don't shoot!" he whimpers.

Sitwell's hand and his big police pistol come into Bucky's field of vision. He hands Bucky his phone. "Call 911 and tell them Detective Sitwell needs a uniform and transport, pronto."

"Pronto?" Bucky raises a brow. 

Sitwell shrugs as he cuffs the assailant and hauls him up by his collar. Sitwell pats the guy down and removes a knife from a sheath on his calf. He hands the knife to Bucky and shoves his prisoner into a chair. "You haven't read me my rights," the man smirks. 

"No? Well, I'll let the arresting officer do that. Meanwhile, you, me and my friend who you tried to murder are going to have a little chat."

"I'm not talking to you."

"Fine." He turns to Bucky. "You were Special Forces, right?"

He hadn't been, not exactly, but he could play along with Jasper. "Yeah."

"Bet you interrogated a lot of Taliban, made 'em talk."

"We weren't feeling too charitable after 9/11," Bucky said. He does a few knife twirls, which make the man pale slightly. He tosses it and snatches it from mid-air and somehow the blade ends up against the man's throat. "We took trophies," he whispers in the man's ear. He jerks away, fear in every line of his body. "So, just one question. Who sent you?" His leg is killing him, and if he puts a bit too much weight on the knife, it's not his fault. A tiny bead of blood wells on the guy's skin and he tries to jerk away. "Who sent you!" Buck presses a little harder. 

"Okay! I don't know … I swear I don't. I got a call. Some guy said if I got to you, I'd be set for life. Prove it, he said, and I'd have access to an account in the Cayman Islands. I figured, why not? I don't know you. He said you stole something from him. Fuck, what was I supposed to do?"

"Not take the job, for one," Bucky's mild tone belies his cold eyes. 

"He said if I turned him down, he'd carve me into chum for the sharks off Montauk. Fuck, man. Fuck … " His voice is thick with fear. Just then the uniforms arrive.

Sitwell looks at him in disgust. "Read this guy his rights and take him downtown. Put him on a suicide watch." 

"Yes, sir." The officer reads the guy his rights and he and his partner take their prisoner out of the room.

Bucky folds into his chair. He's shaking and his skin is clammy. It's hard to breathe. "I think I need a doctor," he says, and passes out. 

^*^*^*^*^*^*^  
When he comes to, Dr. Cage is frowning down at him. "So, _that_ happened."

"Sorry. I wasn't expecting somebody to try to kill me in the hospital." 

"You're a sarcastic bastard."

"It's a defense mechanism. At least that's what my therapist says."

"Does he also tell you you're an idiot?"

Bucky laughs. "Yeah, more often than I can count."

Cage sighs. "So, here's the lowdown. You most likely tore some of those ligaments. Your lung was half-collapsed — again. You've acquired a whole new batch of bruises, which can't feel good. Any other new aches and pains?"

"My wrist hurts?"

He can tell the query, "Which one?" is on the tip of Cage's tongue and Cage knows it. He bursts out laughing. "Dude, you are something else." He takes out his stethoscope and listens to Bucky's lungs. "Good. Keep that oxygen on." After manipulating Bucky's wrist he sighs. "I don't think anything is broken, just another bruise. Stop it."

"Is Detective Sitwell still here?"

"No, but he left a message." Cage digs into his pocket and hands Bucky a folded square of paper. Bucky opens it and reads: _Don't worry. Protection detail in place. Trust Dr. Cage._

"Doc, do you know where my phone is?"

"I'm a doctor, not the guardian of your possessions, Mr. Barnes. However, to prove I'm a decent kind of guy, I'll ask one of the nurses." His smile softens his words. "Don't get out of bed unaided. I'll have a orderly bring crutches in the morning. Goodnight, and don't get into any more tussles."

"Thanks, Doc." After Cage leaves, Bucky looks at the clock. It's only 7pm. It's already been a day and a half. He turns on the TV. There is a reporter standing in front of a too familiar building. He turns up the sound and listens to the pretty reporter talk about things she really doesn't understand. . 

_"The cause of the explosion is believed to be a faulty boiler, however, the ATF is on the scene investigating other possible causes. Terrorism is not considered a motive. Meanwhile, rumors continue to circulate about the heroic man who saved a number of lives before the building exploded. Was he a resident? A passer-by? Or was he involved in the mysterious calamity?"_

"Oh, fuck's sake!" Bucky turns off the TV, just as a nurse comes in. She nearly backs out. Bucky holds up his hand. "Sorry. Reporters are idiots." He sighs. "Do you have my phone?"

"Yes." She digs in her pocket and takes out a charger. "It's dead, but I have the same phone, so you can charge it up. I'll be back in a while to retrieve it, okay?"

"Thank you. You're an angel." 

She hands him his phone. "I don't know if there's anything else you need. Your friend Natasha has your wallet and your leather jacket, but your boots are about the only other clothing item that was salvageable."

"Okay. I just hope my phone works." 

The nurse plugs in the charger and connects it. "I can resuscitate a patient, but I'm not so sure about a phone." She smiles and leaves him. 

Bucky waits fifteen minutes, then tries to turn on the phone. The screen, blessedly, comes to life. He texts Steve and waits. Five seconds later, he gets a text back. "On my way. Waiting for the elevator. You okay?"

"Now I am," he texts.. Steve sends a smiley face. Bucky groans, but he can't help sending the goofy emoticon back. It's the best he's felt all day.

He has to dial that back when Steve comes in, scowling. "You didn't tell me somebody tried to kill you!"

"I didn't think it was the sort of news you text to somebody." Bucky can't help being defensive. 

"It would have been better than hearing it from a bunch of admiring nurses."

Something in Steve's tone sets Bucky off. He can't help it, he laughs out loud, because it's less painful than trying to stifle it. "Oh, my God, Stevie. You're jealous? Of the nurses?" He wraps his arm around his ribs. "That's rich! You have no idea how I needed a laugh after today."

"I'm so glad I could give you one," Steve says acidly. "Thanks."

Bucky reaches out to capture his hand. "Don't be like that, Stevie. I'm so glad to see you, you have no idea." He pulls Steve over to the bed. "C'mon, sit with me," he wheedles. 

Steve shakes his head ruefully. "Were you ever going to tell me?"

"Of course I was, because you need to be safe. You know I'd die for you."

"You nearly did." Steve lays his head on Bucky's shoulder. "You're an idiot."

"I've been told that recently." He strokes Steve's hair. "So, did you find a safe house?"

"Natasha asked Clint and Phil. They have a spare room." He looks up at Bucky. "I don't know why they agreed to take me in. I'm just a guy who is nothing but trouble."

"Clint and Phil are great guys, and they'll do anything to help a friend. Speaking of … you didn't come here alone, did you?" 

"Clint came with me tonight. He's getting coffee to go with the _vatrushka_ Natasha sent."

Bucky's face brightens. "Really?"

"We all love you, Buck. We're worried. Me, most of all."

"As long as you love me most of all." They kiss, and for that moment, it's perfect. 

"Break it up kids," Clint speaks from the door. He has a tray of coffee in one hand and a brown bag in the other. "Romanov's delivery service." He saunters in and sets the bag on Bucky's bedside tray. He moves it into position and puts the tray of coffee down. He sits in the chair, leaving Steve to sit on the bed. "So, interesting afternoon, eh?"

"Not the word I'd choose." Bucky tears the pastry in half and offers one half to Steve. "Sorry, I'm not that hungry."

Clint leans forward. "Pain meds, huh? I've been there. You've got to eat, Barnes. You're looking kind of thin."

"Can't help it." Bucky takes a bite of the pastry and sighs. "Tell Natasha it's really good. Don't tell her I only ate half."

Steve laughs. "No way! She'll kill the messenger."

He finishes the half pastry and leans back, drawing Steve down with him. Steve settles against him comfortably. This is good, Bucky thinks. Having friends. Having Steve. "Thanks, Clint. For everything."

Clint shrugs it off. "It's nothing. Phil's cool with it. When you get out of here, he might have some news for you. He and Sitwell are working on some ideas."

"Sitwell. Damnit. I forgot to tell him about the van."

"Van?"

"Yeah. I think that plumbing company is bogus. Ace/Acme. White panel van. The license plate was obscured. When I looked on the internet, I couldn't find a listing."

"I'll tell him," Clint leans forward. "Do you remember anything else?"

"If I do, I'll let you know." 

Bucky is suddenly exhausted. It must show in his face because Clint stands up and stretches. "I'm gonna find a washroom. Steve, we should let this _hero_ get is rest. Oh, just in case you're wondering, there is a cop outside your door."

"Okay." Bucky stifles a yawn. Steve sits up reluctantly. "I wish I could stay with you."

"As long as nobody else tries to kill me, I should be out of here the day after tomorrow." 

"Your schedule or the doctors?"

"I know my body, Steve. I'll be ready."

Steve kisses him softly. "I'll see you in the morning, okay?"

"Work?"

Steve looks at him. "Natasha gave me time off until you're better. I don't know how she can afford to pay me for not working. It doesn't seem right."

"Do you think the bakery is Natasha's only source of income?" Bucky keeps the books. He knows the bakery barely makes a profit. When he asked Natasha about it, she said, 'It's a tax write-off.' He doesn't pry, and she doesn't elaborate. "Don't worry about it. Natasha knows what she's doing."

"I don't like being a charity case!"

"For fuck's sake, Steve. Use the time to paint, re-make your art. Trust me, Natasha will find a way for you to repay her. Right now, please just be safe."

"I'm fine. Clint and I are shopping tomorrow for replacement clothes. We'll pick up some things for you so you don't have to wear some old scrubs home."

"Home? Do I have one?"

"Phil says he won't take no for an answer."

Bucky mentally adds Coulson to the list of friends. He'd never thought he'd find anybody who'd watch his back the way his Howling Commandos had in Afghanistan. Apparently, he's wrong. It's a good feeling. Relief makes him weak. His head drops back on the pillows and he sighs. 

Steve gets up. "Goodnight, Buck." His hand rests on Bucky's chest. "Take care of yourself."

"Steve?"

"What?"

Bucky can't say it, not yet. "You, too." He closes his eyes as Steve combs his fingers through Bucky's hair. 

By the time Clint returns, Bucky is sleeping. Steve whispers. "Love you." But Bucky doesn't hear it. 

**TBC**


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bucky gets out of the hospital. Clint is an awesome cook. Steve and Phil have a plan.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, to those of you following the story. I actually have a chapter ready to post. :-: I want to thank you all for your kind comments and kudos! I hope you enjoy this one, too.
> 
> No warnings in this chapter, though there are some moment of angst balanced by fluff.

Steve doesn't say much on the drive back to Clint and Phil's loft. He can't help thinking about the new bruises on Bucky's face, the tone in his voice when he asked if he still had a home. The exhausted shadows in his eyes. He doesn't like leaving him alone in the hospital even with the cop stationed outside his door. The worst thing is, he can't do a damn thing about it.

Clint pulls into his deeded parking space next to Phil's black Lexus (not the latest model but meticulous). Clint's loft is above a bar. Steve squints at the sign. "The Aerie? Do you own the bar, too?"

"Nah. Phil just about pissed his pants laughing when we brought the place."

"Why?"

"The news media called me Hawkeye when I was competing. Every time I gave an interview they'd say they were interviewing the hawk in his aerie. They thought they were being really clever. The idiots didn't know that _eagles_ live in aeries, not hawks, but what're you gonna do?"

Steve forces a smile. Numbly, he follows Clint to the elevator. Clint is silent, until he opens the loft door. "Here we are. Home sweet home."

Steve steps inside. He looks around, his interest piqued. The loft is divided into a lower and upper level. The lower is long and has the corrugated steel walls. The flooring is rubber, with a slight spring to it. At one end, is a target, at the other, a rack filled with Clint's competition bows. "This is my practice range." Clint says rather unnecessarily. 

"I kind of guessed that." Steve says and looks up to see a variety of gymnastic rings and bars hung from the ceiling, and an impressive weight rack hanging on the walls. "I thought you had a bad knee?"

"Bad enough. But I need to keep limber. Archery isn't all about the eyes, you know. C'mon, I'll show you the living space. It's a little more luxurious that this."

They go up a short flight of stairs. The walls are a warm aged brick. There is a fireplace on one wall and thick, richly-colored rugs on a century-old wood plank floor. A deep leather couch and love seat make an angled seating area facing a sixty-inch flat screen TV surrounded by industrial metal bookcases. Two recliners with a lamp table between them complete the seating area. The coffee table is a slab of raw granite on metal legs. 

"Wow," Steve says. "This is pretty incredible."

"It's home." Clint grins. "Phil's got a genius decorator courtesy of Ms. Pepper Potts. If it were up to me, it would be the TV and couch, and that's it. Phil is a little more high maintenance." Clint grins, and doesn't look as if he minds at all. "Make yourself at home. Want a drink?"

Steve doesn't drink often, but he feels like he could stand something stronger than his usual tea. "What have you got?"

"Beer, bourbon, vodka for Natasha, and single-malt for Tony and Pepper."

"Bourbon?" 

"Mmm, good taste." Clint goes to the open kitchen and opens a cupboard. He pours the liquor into a glass and adds a single giant cube of ice. "Phil," he shrugs as if that explains everything. He opens a beer for himself and brings the drinks into the living room. "You can sit down, you know."

Steve decides the love seat is the best option and he settles there. "This is nice," he sighs. He takes a sip of the bourbon. "And nicer."

Clint laughs. "Yeah, who'd have thought a farm kid from Iowa would end up with digs like this in the big city?"

"I was born here," Steve says and takes another sip. "I thought Phil was just an ADA?"

"Phil is _never_ just an ADA. He was military, too. We met on a mission."

Steve sits up suddenly, "Whoa! A mission?"

"Yeah, he was a Ranger and I was an Air Force Special Tactics sniper."

"Bucky was a spec ops sniper," Steve says. "How'd you all end up here?"

Clint laughs. "Guess we just found each other. Or rather, Phil and I found Bucky at Natasha's, and we found Natasha in Afghanistan."

It's all too much. Steve can't imagine belonging in this elite cadre. Even Natasha? He remembers Bucky saying, _Do you think the bakery is Natasha's only source of income?_. "I'm just an artist from Brooklyn," he says quietly. "I'm the one who doesn't belong."

Clint gets up off the couch and turns on the TV. On the way back to his seat, he pauses and places a warm, strong hand on Steve's shoulder. "I think you do. So, Jets or Giants?"

"Giants."

"Mets or Yankees?"

"Mets."

"Okay, you can stay." Clint settles down again. 

Steve sips his drink and thinks about Bucky while Clint watches a program on ESPN. He finishes his drink and yawns. "Where am I sleeping?"

"Sorry, I forget that part. The guest bedroom and bath are up those three steps past the kitchen. I put out some sleep pants and a t-shirt. The guest bath is fully stocked. Your stuff is in the bedroom."

"All my earthly possessions in one pack," Steve sighs and goes up the steps. "Thanks, Clint."

"You're welcome. See you around eight?"

"Sure." Steve could sleep the clock around, but at the same time he doesn't think he'll sleep much at all. 

He finally falls into an uneasy doze when the skies are starting to lighten. His phone wakes him before the alarm goes off. He gropes for it, his heart pounding because only bad news comes that early. "'lo?" he manages to cough out.

"Stevie? You sound terrible."

Steve ignores that. "Bucky, why are you calling so early? Are you okay?"

"Yeah. I'm okay, but I gotta get out of here. I can't sleep. I feel like I'm being watched."

"You are. By two cops outside your door." Steve scrubs his hand over his face. "Will the doctor discharge you?"

"I'm an adult. I can discharge myself."

"You're an idiot. Call me back after I have some coffee and a shower. Maybe that will give you time to re-think walking out of the hospital. Just don't do anything stupid."

"Yeah, yeah. I got that. I miss you, punk."

Steve laughs. "You're such a jerk, Barnes, but I miss you, too." Steve drags himself out of bed and into the shower. His lungs hurt; probably the stress of the last few days. Of course, he doesn't have an inhaler. He hopes the heat and steam from the shower will loosen things up until he can call for a prescription.

He dressed in jeans and a shirt borrowed from Phil. Coulson is taller than Clint, but less muscular in the shoulders and chest. The shirt is big, but not ridiculous, and plain. Clint likes graphic t-shirts with the names of bands, archery clubs or bars. 

By the time he finishes dressing, the aroma of brewing coffee is in the air, luring him from the bedroom to the kitchen. Clint is leaning against the counter, drinking from a super-size mug with a target on it. He pours a mug for Steve. "Grumpy Cat?" Steve asks. 

"I got it for Phil. His hatred of Mondays is legendary."

"Where is he?"

"He stayed downtown. There was some sort of CLE he attended with a dinner following. He'll be back tonight. So, are you ready to hit the stores so you and Barnes have some decent clothes?" 

"We don't have money," Steve says and feels his cheeks burning. 

"It's covered. You haven't read the papers, have you?"

"Sorry, haven't had time. Why?'

Clint pushes the paper across the counter. First, Steve is amused that Clint has an actual newspaper, not some digital edition. Second, he reads the headline and his eyes grow wide. "W-what?" He reads the headline again. 

**Fund established for victims of the Brooklyn Gas Explosion**.  
_The Stark Foundation has donated a substantial amount to aid those left homeless by the disaster. An additional reserve fund has been set up for the mysterious hero who saved his neighbors. This man's identity and whereabouts are currently unknown._

"This is impossible!"

"Don't get excited. Stark isn't an idiot. It's enough to allow you and Barnes to get a new apartment and replace your possessions."

"You think I'm complaining?" Steve is aghast. 

"No! Geez, Rogers. somebody does something nice for you and you question it? Stark isn't like the jerk who stole your art. He's kind of an asshole, but his intentions are good … most of the time."

Steve has to sit down. "So, shopping?"

Clint grins. "Wardrobe upgrade. You both need it. I swear, if I see Barnes in one more ratty hoodie … " He shakes his head. "Give me ten minutes and we'll be out of here."

"Bucky wants to leave the hospital against medical advice. I told him he's an idiot. He said he feels like he's being watched." 

Clint's eyes narrow. "Watched?"

"You don't think — I mean there are _cops_ outside his door."

"It might not be the cops." Clint is suddenly grim, all jokes about shopping and wardrobes vanishing. "C'mon. It won't kill him to wear sweatpants and a hoodie. We can go shopping tomorrow."

Steve looks aghast. "You agree with him?"

"Listen, Bucky was soldier. A sniper. He's trained to observe. Those instincts don't go away just because he's not active duty. If anything, they're sharper. So, let's get him out of that place and here, where he has back-up."

Steve is already shrugging into his coat. They drive Clint's SUV to the hospital, and Steve catches the elevator while Clint parks. He doesn't know what to expect. Whatever bogeys were in his mind, it's not what he finds. Absolute, total normalcy except for the uniforms in front of Bucky's door. He shows them his ID and they check it against the list of approved visitors. They step aside and Steve opens the door. 

Bucky is eating cereal and watching the news. He's scowling at the TV and Steve steps inside to see a reporter holding a copy of the morning paper. No wonder Bucky is glaring at her. He looks about as happy as Steve had been on seeing the headlines.

"I'd say good morning, but something tells me it's not."

Bucky's scowl lightens. "Hey." He holds out his hand and pulls Steve in for a quick kiss. The oxygen mask is gone and for the first time since the accident, there is color in his cheeks. The infusion IV has been removed.

"No drugs?"

Bucky shrugs. "I'm fine. Aren't you going to try to talk me out of this?"

"Clint agrees."

Bucky nods, without a snarky remark, which doesn't make Steve feel better about the whole thing. Clint enters the room silently and hands Bucky the clothes they brought with them. "These should be comfortable and warm. Sorry they're not up to your usual sartorial standards, as Phil would say."

Bucky nods. "Doc Cage knows I'm doing this. He doesn't like it, but he gave me my discharge orders."

Clint nods. "I like that man. You can do rehab at the loft when you're ready, but for now, let's blow this pop stand."

^*^*^*^*^*^

Bucky, despite his protestations that he's fine, is as white as a sheet by the time Clint helps him limp to the sofa and settles him with his leg up and an afghan covering him. "Did you take your pain pills before we left the hospital?" Steve asks. 

"After I woke up this morning. I didn't want to be all muzzy when you came to take me home." 

Steve thinks he's lying. He's learned to recognize the signs of Bucky's hypervigilance. Not that being attacked in your hospital room wouldn't make anybody jumpy. Clint had been listening to their conversation and came over with a big glass of water and two pills. 

Bucky waves them off. "I'm fine." The tense line of his body says otherwise. 

"Easy. They're just ibuprofen. I know what it's like. When Bucky gives him a suspicious look, Clint sighs. "You can trust me. They really are just ibuprofen." 

"Sorry." Bucky takes the pills, looks at them closely and then defeated, takes them. He's on edge, but Steve can almost see his body start relaxing as the pills take effect. "Got anything to eat? I'm starving."

"Pasta?" Clint offers.

"Anything. Man, you've been in the hospital. The food is dreck."

"Truer words were never spoke." He vanishes into the kitchen, leaving Steve sitting next to Bucky.

"Hey, what's up?" Bucky asks warily.

"You," Steve mutters. "You don't take pain meds, you're sitting there hurting, and if your leg would let you, you'd be pacing like a caged wolf. I don't know much, but I know that if you don't rest, you won't heal." Steve coughs and gets up because he knows Bucky is reaching for him. "I need to get an inhaler."

Clint appears from the kitchen in time to catch the end of the sentence. "What's the name of the pharmacy? I'll have Phil pick it up. You're not going anywhere."

Steve coughs again, tells Clint, and sits down, wishing his chest didn't feel like a elephant was sitting on it. Bucky is watching him with concern. "How long has this been going on?"

Steve gives him a hard look. "All my life. So don't look at me like I'm some tragic _Camille_ , which is kind of ironic coming from a guy who looks like he's gone twelve rounds with Ali."

Bucky laughs. "I wouldn't have made it through one round, but that's beside the point."

"Is it?" Steve slumps into the cushions. "You don't have to be heroic about this, Buck. You've been a hero for most of your life. You should cut yourself some slack."

Bucky's mouth thins, but he doesn't look at Steve when he speaks. "Your idea of a hero and mine don't match." He's about to say more when Clint carries in two plates of something that smells delicious. 

"Spaghetti a la Carbonara."

Steve doesn't know why he's surprised that Clint can cook. "Wow," he says and takes a forkful of pasta. "This is amazing!"

The door opens and Phil comes up the steps. "That's why I married him." He hands Steve a plastic bag. "Your prescription."

"Thank you," Steve's chest feels lighter just for having the inhaler on hand. "I can't pay …"

Clint coughs something that sounds like _Stark_ , and Steve subsides. He thinks Bucky knows about the relief fund, but knowing Bucky, he'd never touch it, just give his portion away to the people he saved. 

Phil helps himself to pasta and settles in one of the recliners. "This is a masterpiece." 

Clint blushes happily. "Aw, shucks. Just somethin' my li'l ole Italian grandfather taught me."

"You don't have an Italian grandfather," Phil teases.

"Sure I do. Mario Batali."

"First of all, I don't think Mario is old enough to be your grandfather. Secondly, I gave you his cookbook for Christmas." 

"You wound me, babe." Clint poses dramatically. 

"In that case, I'll do the dishes." 

Clint fist pumps, "Yes!" 

Steve and Bucky look at each other and burst out laughing. Bucky chuckles, "Coulson, you've been had."

"You think?" Phil smiles back. "After I clean up, we have to talk. I had a call from Detective Sitwell. He has some news."

Steve's appetite leaves him. At least, he'd already eaten enough pasta that nobody will look at him cross-eyed for not taking care of himself. He risks a glance at Bucky. Bucky's mouth is still curved in a smile, but his eyes are grave. He takes the last forkful of pasta and hands the dish to Steve. He reaches for his crutch. "What are you doing?" Steve asks.

"Going to the washroom."

"I can help —"

"No! I don't need help," he growls angrily, then softens. "I've been hurt worse, Stevie. I can manage this."

"I'm just gonna walk behind you, make sure you're steady. Okay?"

Bucky snorts. "If I fall backwards, you'll need the crutches more than I do!"

"Then don't fall." Bucky's slow grin is reward enough.

^*^*^*^*^*^

After Coulson changes out of his suit into jeans and a sweater, and finishes up the dishes (Clint, being the great guy he is, had done most of them already), he pours himself a whiskey and settles in the chair, not relaxed, not tense, but alert and serious. 

"To start with the easy stuff, Sitwell spoke to the ATF agents, who said that there was no trace of explosive residue or bomb fragments at the site. At that point, they gave investigation over to the Arson unit of the NYFD. While there wasn't evidence of any accelerant or other incendiary device, they did find that the boiler had been tampered with, either intentionally or accidentally, the steam release valve was broken, which led to the explosion."

"How could that be an accident?" Bucky asks. 

"I don't think it was, but we have to wait on the official report. The investigators are questioning the super and residents. The boiler room isn't secure. Anybody could walk in and tamper with the boiler for any reason."

"How convenient for those bogus plumbers." Bucky's voice drips acid. "Are they looking into that?"

"Jasper has people on it."

Bucky punches the pillow in frustration. "Meanwhile, Steve and I can't do a damn thing but sit here waiting for the next bullet."

"Meanwhile, _you_ can heal up and start therapy, and Steve will be safe. We're doing everything we can to —"

Steve has been too quiet for too long. "Not everything," he says. "Bucky's right. We can't just sit here and wait for the next bullet. We have to find a way to stop it from leaving the barrel of the gun."

"Steve —"

"No! I'm not afraid to put myself out there. If they want me, why are we making it harder? Make it easy. Draw them out."

"Stevie?" Bucky's hand is wrapped around his arm. "What are you talking about?"

"I got into this because of my art. I have some painting and drawings stashed in a storage locker. Not enough to mount a full show with just my stuff, but enough to put in with one or two other artists."

"This isn't _The Sting!_ This is real danger."

"I'm not stupid!" Steve says hotly. "But it's one way — maybe the only way we can lure these guys out of the shadows."

"Coulson, talk him out of this," Bucky pleads.

Phil is pacing, thinking. "It's actually not such a bad idea. I have a contact. Let me talk to them and see if it's feasible."

Bucky groans. "God, the inmates are running the asylum. I'm going to bed." He grabs his crutch.  


Clint is at his side before Steve can get off the couch. He slides easily against Bucky's left side, careful of his stump. "I figure if you start to tip over, I can get you back on an even keel."

"Thanks."

Steve watches them until they're in the guest suite. He looks at Phil. "I'm right."

Phil nods. "I wish you weren't, but I think it's the best solution right now. It's not going to be an easy thing, despite what I said. You're putting yourself in real danger, you know."

Steve shrugs. "I'm not afraid to do the right thing. And this feels right."

Phil nods once. "I'll get things going tomorrow. Meanwhile, what do you like to watch? I'm partial to horrible reality TV."

"Bring it on." Steve works up a smile. He's tired, but he wants to give Bucky some privacy and downtime before he goes in. Phil turns on _Supernanny_ and Steve laughs. "Really, Coulson?" But he settles in and watches people acting like idiots, which he finds surprisingly relaxing.

^*^*^*^*^*^*^

Bucky is grateful that Clint stays to help him; he has a quick, impersonal, yet gentle way of handling him. He doesn't stare at Bucky's arm, doesn't ask questions, and doesn't seem repelled by the sight. Maybe because he's seen enough of war to know what it does to a man's body. 

"I was with Phil's unit," he tells Bucky. "Up in the Panjshir."

Bucky nods and lets Clint ease his t-shirt off. "Yeah. I was closer to Kabul, doing a lot of patrols, checking for IEDs, landmines. Trying to keep the Taliban from setting booby traps."

Clint's mouth tightens. "Looks like you found one."

"Ya think?" His laugh is mirthless and his eyes are hard. "We lost some good men. All I lost was my arm. Guess I was lucky."

"Lucky is a relative term," Clint replies. He helps Bucky with a loose, long-sleeved shirt. "You want that sleeve pinned?"

"Thanks." 

Clint pins it and kneels to pull off Bucky's boots. "I can't guarantee this won't hurt." 

"I know." He grips the edge of the mattress more tightly as Clint takes the boot of his braced leg. 

"How long do you have to sleep with that on?"

"Two weeks." He grimaces. "Too long." There is a pause before he speaks again. "I have nightmares."

Clint looks up at him. "I'm usually up for company at some point during the night, even when Phil is wrapped around me like an octopus."

Bucky does laugh, genuinely, at that. "Okay. TMI, but thanks."

"Seriously, we all have things that haunt us in the night. You won't be alone."

Bucky nods and thinks about the days, not that long ago, when he was alone and shivering on the streets. Looking back, he isn't sure how he ended up there. Maybe he hadn't cared, maybe he felt like a pariah, unworthy of anybody's time and company. He knows he never expected to be where he is today. 

Clint walks him over to the bathroom and waits while Bucky brushes his teeth and uses the toilet. When he's finished, he limps over to the bed. Clint helps him ease his leg up on the bed, then hands him a pain pill and a glass of water. "You'll be okay?" Clint asks.

"Yeah, I'm good. Thanks for everything, Clint."

"You'd do the same for me," Clint says and gives his shoulder a light squeeze. "Get some rest. You're safe here."

Bucky nods as Clint dims the light. His eyes are heavy and he's more than half asleep when Steve comes into the room. He listens to the soft rustle of clothes, the sound of water running. Steve slips under the covers and curls around Bucky. 

"Buck? You awake?"

"Little bit."

"Is this okay?"

Bucky is still annoyed, but too tired to pursue it. "Is what okay?" he murmurs.

"Me, here."

In response, Bucky finds Steve's hand in the dark and pulls it across his chest. "Feels real good, Stevie. Stay."

"Okay," Steve snuggles closer and all Bucky can think is that this is perfect. This is what he wants for the rest of his life. Then his thoughts sink deeper into sleep and he lets the darkness come down like a warm cloak.

**TBC**


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pepper makes an appearance. Bucky has doubts. Steve is stubborn. Of course, he is. Clint and Phil are the best as always.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No notes, no warnings. I expect this will change in the next chapter. 
> 
> As always, Marvel owns everything but my words.

Bucky is awakened the next morning by cramping pain radiating from his ankle to his groin. He can't move, and Steve is sleeping with his nose tucked into Bucky's shoulder. He doesn't want to wake him, but he can't stay still. Steve is awake at the slight movement. His eyes are blurred with sleep and unfocused without his glasses.

"Buck?"

"I— I didn't want to wake you, but I need Clint, okay?"

"I can help —"

"No. Just get Clint." He sees the hurt in Steve's eyes, but he doesn't apologize. "Stevie, please." He clenches his jaw, stubborn against the pain. 

Steve puts on his glasses and nearly trips on the too long legs of his sleep pants. He reappears a few minutes later with a rumpled, sleepy Clint in tow. "What's wrong?"

"My leg cramped up. And I have to piss."

Clint takes off the brace and massages Bucky's leg with strong, warm hands. Bucky groans, caught between the pain of his strained ligaments and the near pleasure of Clint's massage. Finally, the cramps subside. He raises up on his elbow. "Help me to the bathroom?"

"Take it slow." Clint fastens the Velcro straps on the brace and helps Bucky stand, waiting until he's used to being upright. They walk to the bathroom. Bucky sighs. "Thanks. I'm okay, now."

"I'll wait out here."

"What time is it?" Bucky asks.

"Early." 

"Sorry."

"No reason. Phil will be up in about thirty minutes. This will give me a chance to make coffee and send him off with a good breakfast. Are you hungry?"

"Starving." He comes out of the bathroom. His hair is damp and his eyes are slightly red-rimmed, but he looks better than he had the day before. He takes his crutch from Clint. "I think I scared Steve off."

"Not really." Steve sits up from where he had been lying on the sofa. "I don't scare that easy. Are you okay?"

"Better." He limps over to Steve and lowers himself to the sofa. "Sorry, the pain kind of caught me off guard. It reminded me of waking up in the hospital without an arm. Not fun." He doesn't mean for it to sound as sad and hollow as it does. He can't look at Steve, he doesn't want to see the pity in his eyes. 

"Buck, you don't have to apologize. Yeah, I was a little startled at first, but I'm not stupid, and I'm not as fragile as you think I am. I know what pain is, and I know what it's like to live with it. I know it's not the same as yours, but I … I know." 

Bucky drops his head on Steve's shoulder. "I'm tired," he admitted. "But I don't want to get back into bed and sleep the day away, either."

"You should eat something," Clint says from the kitchen. "Then go back to sleep." He delivers a plate with a cheese omelet, bacon and toast. 

It smells amazing, and Bucky, despite fatigue and too many pain pills, knows he needs food. He has to remind himself to eat slowly and to stop when his stomach is full, even if he wants to keep on eating. He finishes with fragrant green tea, sweetened with honey. He no longer feels as fragile as he did, and between Clint's massage and the pain pills, he's feeling almost human. 

"A shower would feel really great." He says, looking hopefully at Clint.

"Sure. The master has a bench and steam." Clint waggles his brow and Bucky laughs.

"Sold!" He manages to stand on his own and follows Clint into the master suite. Clint digs through his dresser and finds clean sweats.

"We are definitely shopping today."

"That might be interesting," Bucky responds as he strips off his shirt. He's not shy about Clint seeing his stump, but he wishes the mirror wasn't quite so large. 

"Don't get any wild ideas, Barnes. Steve and I will shop. You're staying here with your leg propped up." He shows Bucky how to work the controls on the shower. "There's another touch pad inside if you want to change the settings."

"That's pretty high-tech for an ADA and an archery instructor."

Clint laughs. "It's all in who you know," he says. "It's a story."

"I think I can handle it from here. Thanks, Clint."

"I can hang out in the bedroom. Just holler when you're finished."

"I think I can handle that, too."

^*^*^*^*^*^*^  
The shower is a religious experience. Bucky sits on the bench and lets the hot water beat on his body, he uses Clint's shampoo and body wash, then carefully turns so the pulsing spray works the taut pain from his back muscles. He pushes the button to activate the steam and rests his head against the tiles for as long as he can stand the heat, before he turns on a fine mist of lukewarm spray. 

"You still alive in there?" Clint speaks through the door.

"I can't stay here forever?"

"Nope. But you can repeat the experience tomorrow."

"Sounds like heaven. I might need some help here in a minute. I can take the damn brace off, but I can't put it on with one hand." He dries off using thick, soft towels, then pulls on boxers and an undershirt before he calls on Clint for help with the brace. 

When the brace is on over his sweats and Clint has left him alone, he takes a few minutes to pick up the towels and his clothes. He knows Clint won't care if he leaves them lying around, but he thinks Phil is a little more fastidious. He can hear an odd, steady thump coming from the living area. He takes the steps cautiously. The origin of the sound is from the steady hit of Clint's arrows into the targets. 

Steve is leaning against the rails, watching. When Bucky stands next to him, their shoulders touching, he turns and smiles. "He's kind of amazing."

Bucky raises a brow. "Are you trying to make me feel inadequate?"

Steve laughs softly. "You? Hardly. Besides, I think he's spoken for." He tilts his face to Bucky's. "You look good. Not as pale."

"I've always been a fast healer."

"Don't push it."

"Yes, Dr. Rogers. So, shopping with Clint?"

"Tell me what you need and we'll get it."

Writing a list of what he needs doesn't take long. Jeans, long-sleeved t-shirts, two warm sweaters, khakis for dress occasions ...and the usual suspects like socks and underwear. He also asks for elastic hair bands, gloves, and knit watch caps. His boots are nearly new and in good condition. He gives his list to Steve. "You know what I like. Nothing fancy. Sweaters and socks from the Army/Navy surplus. Right?"

"Sure, Buck." Steve tucks the list into his wallet. "See you in a couple of hours." He and Clint take off, and Bucky, after promising Clint that he will follow the instructions to sit his ass down on the couch and prop up his leg, turns on the TV to the Food Network, since he hasn't seen anything on the channel yet that triggers him -- Except to make him hungry, but that doesn't count. He manages to microwave a bowl of soup for lunch, and finally allows himself the luxury of a nap.

The sound of voices pitched low, wakes him. He recognizes Coulson's, so he doesn't go into panic mode, but the other voice is a woman's, soft and at times, amused. Bucky opens his eyes. They are sitting at the kitchen island, with cups of tea in front of them. Bucky coughs in warning and sits up. 

Phil turns on his chair. "Sorry, we didn't mean to wake you up."

"No, it's better for me to wake up. Otherwise I won't sleep tonight." He reaches for his crutch and hobbles over to the island. He leans against the edge and offers his hand. "I'm James Barnes, or Bucky."

"Virginia Potts, or Pepper, which I prefer." She's a gorgeous strawberry blonde with legs a mile long, a California tan, and a dazzling smile. She's wearing an engagement ring the size of Gibraltar on her finger. 

Bucky looks inquiringly at Coulson. "Ms. Potts is CEO of Stark Industries, and a patron of fine art. Stark has one of the best private corporate collections in the world."

"Funded by the same explosives that did this?" He lifts his shoulder. "Good for him."

Pepper is no pushover. "I'm sorry about your arm, and maybe Stark Industries was indirectly responsible for your injury, but I made it very clear to Tony that the art collection had to be funded by the technology division, not the weapons and warfare division." 

"You believe him?"

"Tony is many things, but I don't believe he lied about this. Also, he closed down the weapons division after his kidnapping, which was well before you were wounded."

Her eyes are hot with passion, and Bucky feels like an idiot for being rude. "I'm sorry. That was incredibly rude of me. Sometimes I —"

"You don't owe me an apology. I should be thanking you for your service and apologizing to you. Phil says you're quite the hero."

"Not so much. I just did what had to be done."

Phil speaks for the first time. "That's a pretty good definition of a hero in my book."

Bucky makes a dismissive sound. "Your book needs to be edited."

Just then, the door opens and Clint and Steve come in, laden with paper and plastic bags. Bucky rolls his eyes. "Geez, guys. Did you buy out every store in town?"

"Natasha said your list was woefully inadequate to meet your needs."

"You told Nat?"

"I asked her a question and she got to me, I confess. But she was right. Here —" He thrusts the bags at Bucky. "All yours."

"What about your things?"

"Still in the car. We couldn't carry everything."

"Over-buy much?" Bucky can't help smiling at Steve's flustered reaction. "I can lend a hand. Literally." 

"Just take your stuff …" Steve pauses, noticing Phil and Pepper for the first time. "Oh."

Pepper holds out her hand. "You must be Steve Rogers. James has been telling us what a talented artist you are. I'm Pepper —-"

Steve drops the bags. His eyes widen in recognition. "I know who you are, Ms. Potts. You're kind of a heroine in the art community. I never expected to meet you."

Pepper clearly thinks Steve is adorable. "Phil and I have known each other for quite a while, so he approached me with a project."

Bucky sets the bags down abruptly. "Did he tell you it was likely to be dangerous?" He likes Pepper, her relationship with Stark notwithstanding, and he's had enough of putting civilians in danger. That never ended well. 

"He's told me that somebody has tried to kill Steve and you more than once. I'm not a frail flower, and Tony has resources that will hold the danger to a minimum, so why don't we talk about the plan before you judge it."

Steve looks at Bucky. "I want to hear the plan. I'm not afraid and I can deal with what happens. What I hate, is having my life stolen by people who think they can bully and cheat innocent people of their livelihoods. I can do this."

Phil, who has been watching the dynamics, finally speaks. "Steve and Pepper need to talk about the logistics of setting up the gallery showing. James, you and I need to talk about what the security needs are. Then we bring in Stark to discuss the technology involved."

"What is the timeframe?" Bucky asks.

"Two weeks. That will give Steve time to get his artwork out of storage, for Pepper to arrange for at least one other artist to display his works, and for you to heal."

It makes sense to Bucky, but two weeks looms like an unfathomable span ahead of him. He doesn't want to intrude on Clint and Phil for two weeks. He wants someplace quiet and private, and above all secure, for Steve. "We can't stay here for two weeks," he says to Phil. "Is there someplace else we can go?"

Pepper takes out her phone and walks away where they can't hear her conversation, just the low murmur of her voice. When she returns, her cheeks are slightly pink, but her gaze is level. "I spoke to Tony. He has apartments at Stark Tower for out of town colleagues to stay for extended periods of time. He has a vacant unit. It's quite nice, and you won't find a more secure building in the world -- not even the Pentagon."

Bucky's stomach roils. He really doesn't want to be beholden to Stark for anything and he isn't certain he can trust him. "Steve?"

"We can't stay here for two more weeks. It wouldn't be fair to Clint and Phil, and I'm pretty sure it wouldn't be safe for any of us. Can I see you for a minute, Bucky?"

Bucky sighs. "We'll be back." They go into the bedroom. He eases himself down to the mattress. "What?"

"I know you aren't crazy about the idea, but I think it's a good one. I don't know what is between you and Stark, but it's not like he planted the IED, Buck."

"You don't know shit about war! You don't know what it's like to know that one misstep could kill you and your men. You don't know what it feels like to have a sniper looking at you through a scope that was refined by Stark's laser technology. It's a fucking nightmare, and I barely survived. Every morning I wake up and have to get used to the reality of only having one arm. You know what I saw when I was lying there in the sand? A piece of metal not two feet away that had the words Stark Industries on it, covered with a fine spray of my own blood." Bucky knows his anger isn't justified, but every time he sees Stark's name, he flashes back to that moment of detached reality. He was angry then and that anger echoes in his mind. It's not Steve's fault. 

Steve is standing in front of him, looking earnest and stubborn. His slight frame is almost vibrating with his emotions. "You're right. I don't know what you went through, but maybe Stark just wants to _help_. Look, I'm not a coward, but I'm not reckless, either. Not when it comes to the lives of my friends, or to your life.. Please, Bucky, I don't want to lose you or any of our friends because we didn't do the right thing."

Bucky sighs heavily. "You're sure this is the right thing?"

"I don't think we have another viable option right now. Do you?"

The sad truth is, he doesn't. He looks at Steve and takes his hand. "I hate not being able to keep you safe --"

"Will you stop that? I'm safe. I'm fine. I'm not that breakable. You don't have to protect me!"

"I know that, ya punk." Bucky forces a grin. "Okay. New digs at Stark Tower. Might as well live it up." Despite his smile, he has a mountain of doubts that keeps getting higher. 

_TBC_


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bucky and Steve move into Stark Tower, "meet" Jarvis, and have an interesting dinner with Tony and Pepper. Oh, and did I mention that there might be sex? Finally!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Time for some warnings. Explicit M/M sexual content at the end of the chapter. If it's not your thing, you can skip to the last couple of paragraphs which only require a warning for Bucky feels. :-)

In the bedroom, Bucky looks at the sum total of his belongings all of which fit into one of Clint's duffel bags. He's never been somebody who places much value on _things_. His stint in the military had kept him pretty much boots on the ground, but the few possessions he's accumulated — his books, his DVDs, his music, the movie posters on his wall — while they hadn't been much, they had been _his_ , and the loss of them hurts. Now, all he has is his clothes. He gives himself a mental kick. He's not the only one who lost things in the fire. It's just that he keeps losing them. He rubs his left shoulder, aching with a weird sympathetic pain. 

"Buck?" Steve looks in. "You okay?"

Bucky marshals his best "haven't a care in the world" face. "Sure."

"You look kind of … bereft." Steve sits next to him and leans against his right shoulder. "I'm sorry."

"Sorry?"

"You don't deserve this."

"Nobody does." He sighs. "But you play the hand you're dealt. C'mon, let's finish up and get going."

"Buck?"

"What?"

Steve kisses him gently. "We're okay. You haven't lost me."

For some reason, Bucky wants to bury his face in Steve's neck and bawl. He won't allow himself that luxury. He kisses Steve's hand. "Yeah, we're okay."

"Stark's driver is here. You ready?"

"Sure." He pulls his duffel up on his good shoulder. 

"Crutch," Steve reminds him. "Give me the bag."

"God, you're bossy." But he hands Steve the bag with a grin, and if it feels forced, at least Steve smiles back.

A large man in a chauffeur's uniform is shaking hands with Phil "Nice to see you, Mr. Coulson."

"Likewise, Mr. Hogan." Phil turns to Steve and Bucky. "This is Mr. Stark's head of security, Mr. Harold Hogan."

"That's Happy to my friends." The big guy smiles, which Bucky finds only slightly alarming. He doesn't look particularly like a Happy, but then he smiles and his broad face softens into genuine pleasure. "Nice to meet both of you. I promise you quick and safe transport to Stark Tower." 

Bucky nods. "I guess we're ready." They probably look like orphans of the storm; Steve in clothes that don't quite fit his slim frame and Bucky, with his sleeve pinned up and his leg in a brace. Hogan shoulders both of their bags easily. "I'll see you downstairs," and retreats to allow them to say goodbye to Clint and Phil.

Bucky feels like there's a lump of stone in his throat. "Umm … I don't think there are words to say how grateful we are, but thank you."

"Those will do," Phil says. He holds out his hand, first to Bucky, then to Steve. "We won't be strangers. I'll have to bring Detective Sitwell over in a day or so to discuss the case."

Clint won't settle for a handshake. He hugs Bucky. "Take care of yourself, Barnes. If you need anything."

"Thanks, Clint." 

He hugs Steve a little more gently, but still nearly lifts him off his feet. "Take it easy. Watch out for your guy."

"I will. You take care of yours."

"Gotcha." He grins and sketches a salute. "See you guys soon."

Then before things get awkward, Bucky tugs at Steve's sleeve. "We don't want to make Mr. Hogan unhappy. Time to go." He hopes his trepidation doesn't show through his smile. 

^*^*^*^*^*^*^

Stark Tower is gracefully intimidating from the street; gleaming steel and glass, marble and gray granite. Somehow, it manages not to loom, but almost float above its lesser neighbors. Hogan pulls into an underground garage, drives past the public parking, and then onto a platform which takes them to another floor and a stainless door which glides open silently. 

Bucky can't help staring. It's like an automotive museum of impossibly expensive cars, ranging from a classic Duisenberg, to a car that Bucky swears is the infamous flying car developed in the 40's by Howard Stark. Of course, it is. 

Hogan slots the limo into a space. "Well, boys, we're home. Safe and sound."

Bucky doesn't think it's home, but at least it's safe. The cars alone cost more than his life is worth on paper. Hogan opens the doors. "Don't worry about the luggage. It will be taken up to your rooms. I should warn you about Mr. Stark's Jarvis."

"What is a Jarvis?" Steve asks. 

"Jarvis is an advanced artificial intelligence unit. He's a butler."

"A robot?"

"No. You'll hear him, but he doesn't really have a physical presence."

"That's creepy," Bucky adds, raising a brow at Hogan. "Isn't it?"

Hogan grins. "A little, but you'll get used to him."

Flying cars and artificial intelligence. Since when is this his life? He looks at Steve and rolls his eyes. "Welcome to Wonderland," he says out of the side of his mouth, and they follow Hogan to the elevator.

It seems as if they've only been in the elevator for less than a minute when the doors open. They're in a common area; glass walls with a 360 degree view of the city, balconies, a long, stylish wet bar with shelves of backlit bottles, which Bucky knows are top shelf. The furniture is arranged in seating areas, including a conversation pit with custom built banquettes and deep leather cushions. It's surprisingly homey and comfortable. Bucky had been expecting stainless steel and furniture that looked like you needed to be a contortionist to sit on. 

Steve is looking at the art on the walls. "These are originals. They're worth a fortune."

"Well, Stark has one," Buck says wryly. 

Happy starts speaking, and at first Bucky thinks he's talking to him, then he realizes he's conversing with the AI, Jarvis. Jarvis, please scan Mr. Barnes and Mr. Rogers. They will have access to all common areas. They are Mr. Stark's guests."

"Of course, Mr. Hogan. They are most welcome. Sirs, I have granted you access as requested. The kitchen in the guest suite is fully stocked, but if there is anything you wish added to the inventory, you may let me know and it will be delivered. Mr. Stark has streaming capabilities for any music or movies you wish to access. If you wish entertainment of a more intimate variety —"

"Whoa!" Bucky nearly shouts. "No! TMI, Jarvis. Thank you." It doesn't help that Steve is doubled over with laughter. 

He swears he can hear the smirk in Jarvis' disembodied voice. "Of course not, Mr. Barnes. I will make note of it."

"James. Call me James."

"Yes, sir. Mr. Stark's assistant, Ms. Norris, will show you to the guest suite. Your luggage has been delivered."

Bucky finds this all too surreal, but Steve replies, "Thank you, Jarvis. You can call me Steve."

"Of course, sir."

The door opens and a brunette with a curvaceous figure and full red lips enters. She smiles widely. "Hey, guys. I'm Tammy, Mr. Stark's assistant. Your suite is this way. So, what do you think of Stark Towers?"

"It's a little overwhelming," Bucky admits. "But nice."

"Yeah, I don't think I closed my mouth for the first three months, I was in such a state of total awe. But you get used to it. You'll even get used to Jarvis. Hey, J-man, what's shaking?"

"All is quiet, Miss Norris. Do you require anything?"

"Nope. Just checking in." She smiles brilliantly at Bucky. "See? Just like an old friend." 

"I had an invisible friend when I was four. Not so sure I feel the same way now." 

"Aww, you'll hurt his feelings. Come on, I'll show you to your suite."

Steve is still looking around, his eyes wide. "This is amazing."

"It's the finest money can buy," Bucky says with bitter softness. There is no way he would be here if it wasn't for Steve.

"Gentlemen," Tammy stands aside. "Mr. Barnes, if you would press your thumb on the entry pad, the door opens. It will do the same for Mr. Rogers. The only areas that are inaccessible to you are Mr. Stark's private quarters, office and laboratory. The is a kick-ass theater off the common area and a gym with all the amenities. Mr. Stark will provide any medical assistance you need, Mr. Barnes."

"Bucky."

Tammy looks confused. "I thought your name was James?"

"Nickname for my friends." He holds out his hand and Tammy shakes it. "Mr. Rogers, is Steve okay?"

"Sure. Thank you, Miss Norris."

"God, just call me Tammy. I'll let you settle in. If you get lost, just send Jarvis an SOS and he'll get you back home."

Their bags look pathetic in the luxury of the suite; not that the living area is overwhelming. It's comfortable, with a big TV and all the accessories. The couch looks like it was made to lie on, and there is a big recliner under a reading lamp. The windows are floor to ceiling and there is an easel standing in front of them. Steve wanders over and reads the note attached. 

"For your inspiration," he reads. "From Pepper." 

"Guess she wants you to start producing something for the gallery show. There's no shortage of inspiration." He can see the waters of the Hudson sparkling in the cold winter sun. "Look at that view."

Steve moves in close, and Bucky puts his arm around him. "I'd rather paint you."

"Nobody will buy my ugly mug." He kisses Steve lightly. "We've got two bedrooms."

"We only need one," Steve nibbles at Bucky's ear. "Seriously."

Bucky yields. "Pick one." 

Steve, after looking at both bedrooms picks the one with the view of the Hudson rather than the view of Manhattan. Bucky lies down on the mattress and moans. "Okay, this is pretty wonderful." It cradles his body in warmth, molds to his contours, even his shoulder which is uncomfortable at best and agonizing on occasion is supported gently. 

Steve lies next to him and curls close. "It's nice."

"It's heaven." Bucky yawns, then sits up and takes off his boots. "I'm beat and everything hurts, Stevie." He buries his nose in Steve's neck. "I'm crashing. Wake me up for dinner."

"Sure, Buck." He threads his fingers through Bucky's hair, massaging his scalp. Bucky gives a little hum of pleasure. His body relaxes and he falls asleep almost instantly. He barely moves when Steve gets out of bed and leaves him to his rest.

^*^*^*^*^*^*^

"Bucky? Buck?" Steve's voice penetrates the fog of fatigue and Bucky opens his eyes. The room is considerably darker than it was when he went to sleep. He blinks at Steve. "What time is it?"

"Almost six-thirty. You've been asleep for about three hours."

"I guess I'd better get up and figure out what to have for dinner." He sits up and runs his fingers through his hair. "What?" he asks, when he sees Steve hesitate and bite his lip. 

"About that. While you were sleeping, we received an invitation to dinner with Stark and Ms. Potts."

It's the last thing Bucky wants to do. "What did you say?"

"One of us should go," Steve says. "So, I said yes, but that you were resting. You don't have to come with me."

"No. No, I'll go. I have to see Stark eventually. Now is as good a time as any. Tell Jarvis or Stark or whoever that we'll be there. I need to take a shower. And what the fuck do you wear to a dinner with a billionaire?"

"We did buy you new clothes," Steve reminds him. "Just cut off the tags."

"Punk," Bucky ruffles his hair. "I'll be out in a few minutes." 

He showers, dries his hair and finds a pair of dark jeans and a black sweater in his bag. They're more bargain store than designer label, but they fit well enough. He carries his boots into the living area. Steve looks casual and neat in khakis and a light blue shirt worn under a darker blue sweater. "You look good," he says. "It's a shame to waste it on Stark." 

"You can take it off me after dinner," Steve teases and grabs the front of Bucky's sweater. "Mmm, you smell good."

"The soap probably cost more than the clothes I'm wearing."

"You really don't want to do this," Steve observes, frowning. "I know you have issues —"

"Issues? Is that how you describe it? You really don't know."

"Bucky, I've seen your arm! I can't imagine what it's like for you, but I've seen you struggle, I've seen you in pain. I'm sorry, I'm not trivializing what you've been through. But you've made Stark into this giant bogeyman. Maybe meeting him will help you see that he's just a man, not some faceless demon who ruined your life!"

Bucky glares at Steve, but he can't say he's not right. He sits down and shoves his feet into his boots. "Little help?"

"There is velcro, you know."

"That's for sissies." Bucky does his best to sound grumpy, but Steve is looking at him through his eyelashes and Bucky's heart makes a funny little thump in his chest. "Thanks." He stands up, holds his hand out to Steve. "C'mon. I can't do this alone, Stevie."

"You don't have to, Bucky. I'm right here." He kisses Bucky's jaw, which is about all he can reach without standing on tiptoe. 

Bucky takes his hand. "Will we shock Stark if walk in like this?"

"I think Pepper filled him in. She's not blind, Bucky."

"Good, because right now, I need to hang on to you."

Steve looks like he thinks Bucky's joking, but he isn't. He feels like he's about to fly into a thousand pieces and Steve's hand is the only thing keeping the pieces together. The last thing he wants is to have a panic attack at dinner. That is not the man he wants to be. 

"You don't have your crutch," Steve says as they go out the door. "I can get it —"

"Stevie, I'm walking ten feet to an elevator that will whisk me up to a penthouse where there will undoubtedly be a chair to sit on. I'm not running a marathon." 

"I'll remind you of that when you complain about your knee hurting." 

They step into the elevator and Steve says, "Jarvis, we're going to the penthouse."

Buck wants to laugh. "You and he are like BFFs now?"

Steve smirks. "We've had a few conversations. I think he likes me." 

Before Bucky can reply, the doors slide open and they step into an area that looks like a cross between a spaceship and an elegant hotel lobby. Pepper comes forward to greet them. She's stunning in beige silk trousers and an emerald green blouse. Matching gems sparkle in her ears and at her throat. Her smile is warm as ever, and she leans in to kiss Bucky. 

"How are you feeling, James?"

"Better, thank you."

"I hope you like the guest suite."

"It's great," Steve replies. 

"Of course it is, Pepper designed it." Tony Stark comes forward. He's shorter and slighter than Bucky imagined and his beard is … unique, but perfectly trimmed. He's more casual than Pepper; wearing black jeans and a dark gray shirt, no tie. "Pep, do the honors?"

"Tony, James Barnes and our artist, Steve Rogers." 

"Welcome. Can I offer you a drink?"

"Club soda. I'm still on medications." Bucky looks at him, challenging an argument. 

"I'll have the same," Steve says before Stark can ask, and to deflect some of Bucky's hostility.

"Make yourselves at home." They follow Pepper into the living room. Bucky takes a seat in a chair that looks, and is, more than comfortable. His back thanks him, heck, his entire body thanks him. 

Stark serves them, then brings Pepper a martini while he has whiskey. They sit and talk about inconsequential things; the weather, New York, books, movies. Stark is surprisingly well-read, and Bucky finds him both amusing and intelligent. 

Dinner is surprisingly unpretentious. They dine on Tuscan roast chicken, mashed potatoes that make Bucky want to cry when he thinks about the dried, reconstituted potatoes in MREs, roast asparagus and for dessert, apple pie. He watches Steve covertly. There is a flush on his cheeks, and he's eating with real appetite, not just for the sake of sustenance. He'd worship Pepper for less. He looks at Tony and is stunned to see the tenderness in his face when he looks at her. 

When they've finished, Pepper rises, and they all stand. "Steve, would you like to see Tony's personal art collection? It's small, but I chose all the pieces carefully. I think you'll love them."

Steve gives Bucky a beseeching look at the same time he's squeezing his hand. Bucky forces a smile. "Go. Enjoy the art."

"You look like you need a more comfortable chair." Tony is at his side, but Bucky would rather die than accept his help.

"I can manage," he grits out and makes his way back to the seating area. Tony, to Bucky's chagrin, pulls up an ottoman and raises his leg to it. "Thanks."

"I tore up my ligaments trying to ski. It's not fun."

"I got blown up. Twice." 

Tony laughs. "I'm not getting in a game of one-upmanship with you, Barnes. You win." He goes over to the bar. "After dinner drink?"

"Meds, remember?"

"It's been hours." Tony raises a brow. "I think you believe that I'm an enemy and you need to keep all your wits about you in my presence. Barnes, I'm _not_ your enemy. I don't know why you think that I am. Not many things baffle me, but you do."

"I have one arm. I would think that would be obvious enough."

"Ah, of course. You were in Afghanistan."

"The IED that blew me up and cost the lives of three of my men had your name on it," Bucky spat. "I think I have a right to not trust you."

Tony just gives him a bitter smile. "Before I was captured, my convoy was ambushed. It was an IED. The last thing I saw before I passed out was a shell with my name on it. I swore then and there, that if I lived, I'd get out of the weapons industry. I've kept that promise. My scars may not be as visible as yours, but I carry them every day." He unbuttons his shirt and opens it. His chest is a mass of scars, some surgical, some not. "Fragments of shrapnel are working their way towards my heart. I've had six surgeries and will probably need more in the near future." 

Bucky looks at the scar tissue, at the fear he can see in Tony's eyes. "I didn't know."

"I paid a good penny to keep it out of the press. My doctors know, Hap and Pepper know, and now you. See, trust." He looks at Bucky with those bright eyes. "So, how about one drink?"

Bucky nods. "I'll have what you're having."

"Good choice." He pours a glass and hands it to Bucky. "May I ask you a question?"

"Do I owe you an answer?"

"You don't have to give me one but I'll probably still find a way to ask it. "Why don't you use a prosthetic?"

"Wow, that's a little personal, isn't it?"

"No. Personal would be if I asked if you and Rogers are sleeping together. The prosthetic is just professional curiosity."

"Professional?"

"You don't know?"

"Know about what?"

"I funneled some of the profits from the weapons divisions into new projects. Intuitive devices, robotics, prosthetics all designed to help veterans live normal lives —"

That stings and Bucky retorts, "My life _is_ normal. I have a job. I've adapted, I have a friends, for God's sake. This is my normal."

"Fine, good for you. What about the others?"

"Stark, you give me a headache." Bucky downs his drink. "Where's Steve?"

"Wait. Hear me out. I'm guessing you've tried a prosthetic but it was either poorly fitted, heavy, or just didn't work for you. Nearly half of veterans who have upper arm or shoulder disarticulation have problems with the current so called "state of the art" prosthetics. I can lower that percentage to five or ten percent."

Bucky is suddenly weary. "Why are you telling me this?"

Stark looks surprised. "I thought you might be interested. Listen, I'm not pushing my own agenda here. I'm trying to give back to the guys who risked their lives to get me out of that hell hole. I don't care about profits on this project -- that's not what this is about."

"I don't want to be your guinea pig, Stark. I've been through enough. Tell Steve I went back to the suite. I'm tired and I ache, and there isn't anything you can do for me." He struggles to his feet, wishing he'd remembered his crutch, and too proud to admit he might need help. He forces himself to walk out to the elevator without letting Stark see how much it hurts, and waits for what seems like an eternity. He can feel the weight of Stark's gaze and feels like crap because he's an ungrateful and ungracious guest. On the elevator he speaks, 'Jarvis?"

"Yes, sir?" 

"I don't have much cash, but I'd like to send flowers to Ms. Potts."

"Payment will not be necessary. There is a greenhouse on-site. I will have an arrangement of her favorites sent to her."

"And a note thanking her for inviting me to dinner."

"Of course, sir."

"James. My name is James," he sighs and steps off the elevator when the doors open. "'Night, Jarvis."

"Goodnight, sir." Bucky is too tired to argue -- if you can argue with a non-corporeal AI. He takes another shower, hoping the hot water will loosen up his muscles. It helps; and he sits on the shower bench and wishes he hadn't been such a jerk. 

There is a thick white robe hanging on a hook. Inexplicably, the robe is warm. He wraps himself in it. Someday, he'll figure out how and where things come from in Stark Tower. Stark must have an army of assistants. He's never seen them, just Tammy and Hap. 

When he goes out into the living room, Steve is waiting for him. Bucky feels an instant stab of guilt, even though Steve is looking at him with more concern than accusation. He sits down on the couch next to Steve and tries to figure out what to say that will be the truth, but not the entire reason why he walked out. 

"Are you okay?" Steve asks after searching Bucky's face for signs that he might not be. 

"Yeah. Everything was just a little too much, you know."

"You and Tony didn't argue, did you?"

"No, we didn't argue." And they hadn't, not exactly. "I'm sending Pepper flowers — or rather Jarvis is having an arrangement sent up from the greenhouse. Who lives like this?" Bucky shakes his head in wonderment. 

"Yeah, I know. Here we are just two guys from Brooklyn with no luck." He looks sad, and Bucky can't stand it. He pulls Steve close and kisses him. For a moment there's a brief resistance, then Steve yields, and turns so that Bucky is flat on the cushions. He waggles a brow at Steve. "I think we might get lucky tonight." 

Oh, yeah?" Steve laughs against his mouth as his deft artist's fingers tug at the belt on Bucky's robe. Bucky's breath catches when Steve opens the belt and kisses his way from Bucky's jaw to the notch of his collarbone, moving lower, opening the robe more with ever inch of skin he kisses.

Bucky's eyes flutter closed and his fingers slide smoothly through Steve's hair. There is a faint chill on his skin as the robe falls open but the chill is quickly replaced by warmth as Steve's hands move over his body. Steve's sweet, full lips close over Bucky's cock, as his tongue laps delicately at the cum gathering on the slit. 

"You're so sweet, Buck," he breathes. "Wanna taste?" He kisses Bucky and the the sweet salty taste of his cum and the cinnamon-apple lingering on Steve's lips is the best thing Bucky has ever tasted. 

"Stevie … "

"Shh. It's okay. I'll take care of you, Bucky." He kisses his way back to Bucky's cock. When he takes Bucky deep and hums, Bucky shudders. It's been so long since anybody touched him with real passion. This isn't the gentle exploration of the night he showed Steve his arm, this is sex and Bucky's body isn't arguing with him about that. He stops thinking when Steve tongues his hole, then gently inserts a long finger into him. Waves of pleasure wash through him as he is opened up wider. 

Steve pulls back and shushes his objections. "Wait … " 

He doesn't want to wait, but he strokes himself, holding himself on the edge of climax. He hears the rustle of fabric as Steve strips off his clothes, then his body is covering Bucky's and his cock is sliding into Bucky's slicked up anus. He moves easily inside Bucky, slowly at first, then harder until they are both shaking with the tension that precedes climax. It's a fine, high edge and Bucky can't hold out once Steve works his cock in time with his thrusts. When Steve rakes over his prostate Bucky whites out and muffles his cries in the sleeve of his terry robe. Steve comes at the same time Bucky spills his semen between their bodies, and he collapses on Bucky's chest, breathing hard and fast. His heart is beating against Bucky's in counterpoint until it slows and takes up a matching rhythm.

Bucky is suddenly aware that he's crying, and Steve is looking at him with wide eyes, like he's hurt him. "What's wrong?" he whispers. "God, I'm sorry, Bucky!"

"No! I'm fine … " he controls his sobs, but not his tears. "I — It's been so long, Stevie. And nobody has ever loved me like you do, even before all this shit happened to me." He wipes his eyes. "I love you, Stevie."

"Love you, too." He sighs and slowly pulls out of Bucky's body. "I'd stay like this forever."

Bucky wipes his eyes, stemming the tears. He takes a shaky breath, gathering his emotions. "We'd need food, have to use the bathroom, brush our teeth … might be a challenge." He smiles and cautiously stretches. "Ouch."

Steve winces. "Sorry." He moves carefully so Bucky can stretch out his leg.

"I'll be fine in a few weeks. Meanwhile, we know that I'm perfectly capable of having sex with my super-hot boyfriend." He leers up at Steve, who burst out laughing. He's so pretty when he laughs, with those blue eyes sparkling and his blond hair flopping over his forehead. 

"Well, I think sex must have affected your eyesight."

"Nope. My sight is better than 20/20. Ask the army." He sits up slowly. "Shit, this robe smells like I just had sex in it."

"You did."

"Yeah, well now everybody will know. The laundry bots, and Jarvis, and by default probably Stark."

"Somebody is trying to kill us and you're worried about Stark finding out we're having sex? News flash, Buck. We're adults. We're allowed."

"You are too emotionally healthy for me," Bucky pouts. "I need to go to bed."

Steve pulls Bucky's arm over his shoulder. "C'mon, I'll be your crutch." They make their way to the bedroom where the lights dim and the room is the perfect temperature for sleep. 

**TBC**


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A visit to the gallery and Bucky discovers Steve has been way too modest about his artwork.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Holidays and writing don't combine well. This chapter is short, but important plot-wise. Also, Steve has been quiet while Bucky talks, and now Steve is ready to tell some of the story from his POV in the next chapter. I did a quick spell-check, but further editing will probably happen.

Bucky is still coming to terms with 8am and his second cup of coffee when Jarvis speaks out of nowhere. Bucky startles and hot coffee sloshes over his hand. He barely bites back a curse and jumps up to run his hand under cold water. "Don't you have a bell, Jarvis?"

"Sir?"

"A bell, like a cat. I've only got one hand and I'd kind of like to keep it in working condition. Spilling hot coffee over it doesn't help."

"I apologize, sir."

Bucky sighs. "James. What is it, Jarvis?"

"Mr. Stark will have a car waiting at nine o'clock. There is a location for the gallery that Ms. Potts would like to show Steven."

"Jarvis, why is it so easy for you to call Steve by his given name, but you insist on calling me 'sir'?"

"I believe you were in the army, were you not? Your rank was Gunnery Sergeant."

"Yeah, but I'm not in the army any longer."

"Sir — that is Mr. Stark — believes in honoring your service."

That takes Bucky by surprise. "Oh. Then call me whatever you are comfortable with, I guess."

"I am an Artificial Intelligence, my comfort is not an issue."

"Great. Okay, Steve and I will be ready for Ms. Potts. Where are we going?"  
.  
"Mr. Hogan will have that information. He will meet you on the garage level."

"We'll be there. Thank you, Jarvis."

"You are welcome … James."

Buck is staring into his coffee cup when Steve emerges from the bedroom. He's wearing jeans and a grey sweater. He's toweling his hair dry, and he smells like soap and heat, and himself. It makes Bucky a little dizzy remembering last night. 

"Who were you talking to?"

"Jarvis." He sets the cup down and crosses over to Steve, wrapping his arm around Steve's waist and whispering in his ear. "Morning, lover."

Steve, predictably, blushes a fiery red. "The walls have ears," he says, laughing despite his embarrassment.

"Jarvis is discreet." Bucky nibbles at Steve's earlobe. "We have an appointment at 9am to see a gallery space with Pepper."

"Already?"

"Stevie, as great as Stark Tower is, I want my life back — our life back. Don't you?"

"Of course, I do. But somebody's tried to kill us a couple of times and that's a little scary. I'm not a soldier like you, Buck. I'm not brave."

Bucky can't help the bitterness in his laughter. "Most soldiers aren't brave, Stevie. We're just as scared to die as anybody. Holding a rifle and killing people isn't brave, it's necessary sometimes, but never brave. We're just doing our job, is all."

"What is my job, Buck? Being a victim?"

Bucky tightens his hold. "You're not a victim! Victims don't have power, they don't act. You're braver than I am, Stevie. You're taking it to the bad guy and sayin' 'You don't have power over me.' That's damn brave of you. You don't let people walk all over you or take advantage of anybody who's weaker than you are. You're bringing the fight to them. I'm proud of you for it, don't ever forget that."

Steve ducks his head against Bucky's shoulder. "I wouldn't be so brave without you."

"Sure you would, but I won't let you down. I'll be watching your back and don't forget it." He holds Steve close, and he's actually shaking more than Steve is. This plan is going to happen and it's out of his hands, metaphorically speaking. He's determined to keep an eye on Steve, watch out for hidden dangers that others, less used to them, might miss. That's his job, now. Keeping Steve safe. 

"Have something to eat. I'm not carting your sorry ass around when you keel over from starvation."

"Sorry ass? There wasn't anything wrong with my ass last night." Steve winks, which drives Bucky crazy. He surrenders. 

"Eat, okay? We'll discuss your ass when I have more time to evaluate it." 

"Jerk."

"Punk." Bucky swats his ass lightly. "At least have a Pop Tart and some juice, okay?"

Steve grabs an almond croissant from the pastry collection on the table and gets a bottle of juice from the refrigerator "Okay, I'm ready."

Stark's limo has dark glass hiding the passengers from view, but allowing them to look out at the teeming city. So many people, Bucky thinks, and only a fraction of them are trying to kill him. That's not a comforting thought. They're in Soho now, and the limo slows and stops in front of a red brick storefront with the words The Shield Gallery etched into the granite header and on the front windows. It's relatively unpretentious, for which Bucky is grateful. He figures between Happy and himself, they can screen Steve from view for the few steps from the limo to the gallery.

Happy gets out and opens Bucky's door, then walks around to Steve's. Bucky moves as quickly as he can to the other side of the car, looking at the building surrounding them, accessing lines of sight, rooftops, corners and windows where a sniper could have his hide. He knows where he would choose; across the street, on the roof of the five story building, diagonally to the gallery. It gives line of sight, cover and a quick escape across the rooftops of the building next to it. 

"Bucky?" Steve tugs at his sleeve. "C'mon." 

"Yeah, I'm here." Before he can take another breath, Steve is ahead of both him and Hap. "Steve!" Bucky tries to take the steps with his usual stride, and his knee nearly buckles. He curses at Steve, whose bright hair and slight stature are unmistakeable targets. He finally catches him. "What the hell do you think you're doing?"

"Going inside, what do ya think?" He wrestles his sleeve away from Bucky. "I thought the whole plan was for me to be seen, not for you and Happy to play Secret Service Agents for me." His jaw juts out stubbornly. "I'm going inside. Nobody's gonna try to knock me off before the grand opening. What would be the purpose?"

As much as Bucky hates to admit it, Steve is probably right. That doesn't mean that Bucky can't wish he had his rifle in his hand and be on the building across the way to protect Steve. "Get inside, then." He follows Steve through the heavy glass doors. And, yes, he does think that they'd distort and deflect any shot from outside the gallery. He revises his thought process. _So, an inside threat is more likely, and harder to predict._

The gallery space is expansive and open, with a loft at the top of a flight of curving stairs that seem to float in the air. Bucky hopes Steve's showing is on the first floor because getting up and down those stairs will be a nightmare with his leg the way it is, and missing an arm for balance. 

Pepper greets them with a bright smile and a kiss on Steve's cheek. "Welcome to Shield Gallery. I'd like to introduce Melinda May, who arranges and curates our showings. Melinda, this is Steve Rogers."

May is a stunning Asian woman with silky dark hair and flawless skin. She also looks tough and unafraid of the devil. "I've heard a lot about you, Steve — I can call you Steve, or do you prefer Steven?"

"Steve is good. Ms. May, this is my friend, James Barnes." She looks at Bucky, sees his arm, his leg in a brace and nods. 

"I understand you're quite the hero."

Bucky flushes. "No. Not really. I just seem to be in the wrong place at the right time." 

She nods. "I was in the reserves. I served two tours in Afghanistan as an intelligence specialist."

"I was just a grunt, ma'am." He doesn't want to discuss his military past with her. "So, now you manage Pepper's gallery?"

"Right place, right time." She shrugs. "I needed a change."

That's something Bucky can understand completely. He looks around. "Where will Steve be setting up his art?"

"On the main floor. The balcony will be set up with refreshments and we'll handle sales from there. Ms. Potts is in back. Your artwork has arrived." 

Steve gives Bucky a nervous glance. "I guess this is it."

"Steve, the show isn't for a few days, right?"

"That's not what I meant. I just hope it's good enough. There's nothing worse than having your art ridiculed by a bunch of critics."

Bucky can think of a few things that are worse, including being homeless, severe asthma, being beat up by a thug and nearly blown up — and Steve is worried about a few snooty art critics? Bucky just follows him to the back room. 

Pepper hands Happy a crowbar to pry open a large packing crate. The nails give way easily and the slats of wood are pulled away. "Steve, do the honors? It's your artwork after all."

Steve takes a breath and removes the first canvas. 

Bucky didn't know what he had expected. He knew Steve was special, that he saw things in a unique way — after all, he had drawn Bucky looking like the definition of a wounded warrior. He didn't expect the explosion of color and movement in cityscapes, the detailed architectural sketches, the portraits of New York life — some watercolor, some charcoal. And finally, a triptych of Coney Island at night, which takes Bucky's breath away.

"Stevie," he breathes. "You've been holding out on me. These are amazing. Man, you are an _artist!_. 

Pepper is looking through the art. "He's right. Whoever stole your paintings came away with a lot more than the money he took from you. He left with a collection by a major talent."

Steve's cheeks are blazing. "I'm nobody," he argues.

"You won't be for long," May replies. "So, let's talk set up."

Bucky follows then around the gallery, but instead of focusing on where the paintings will show to their best advantage, he looks for doorways, windows, exits, stairwells. He wishes Sitwell was here to go over the surveillance plan. 

He's looking for security cameras when May stops suddenly and turns. "Sorry," Bucky apologizes. 

"If you're looking for security cameras, I can show you where they are. She points overhead. "In the can lights, in the corners — there, and there. I'll show you the monitors, if you like."

"Please."

She gives him a half-smile. "He's safe today."

"I thought he was safe with me. I was wrong."

"From what Pepper told me, you saved his life and the lives of a number of others."

Bucky shrugs and looks away. "Anybody would have done the same."

May raises a brow. "You keep telling yourself that, if it's easier. But they don't give out Distinguished Service Crosses and medals to cowards."   
"Whatever." Bucky kept his medals in a drawer in his nightstand. He supposes they're gone now, lost in the explosion. It's not like he looked at them every night. "So … the monitors?"

"They're upstairs, and before you look alarmed, we have an elevator."

"Nice to know." They walk to the elevator. It only rises for one floor, but it is glass walled and Bucky likes the panoramic view it affords of the entire gallery floor below him. There aren't many places where an assassin could hide. He doesn't like one blind corner where two partitions meet. "Can that wall be moved?" he asks.

"Possibly, though it is a great display area. The chances of it being deserted are pretty slim, particularly if we display on both sides. The triptych will go on that long outside wall. The other paintings will be grouped according to subject matter and style."

Bucky nods, even though his knowledge of art is limited to what he likes or doesn't like. He likes Steve's art and judging from the enthusiasm from the gallery employees and Pepper, it has to be something special. He can see Steve and Pepper standing in a shaft of sunlight; they both _glow_ in the mellow illumination. 

"Do you want to see the monitors?"

Reluctantly, Bucky turns away from watching Steve. May opens a door leading to a small room with several TV monitors on it. The cameras give a view of the gallery from all angles, including the area that Bucky had been concerned about. There are even views of the outside of the gallery and the delivery area. "What about exits?"

"They all have alarms. Each is separately wired, so cutting one off doesn't affect the others, plus Tony has installed an AI, which is a stripped down version of Jarvis, to monitor the premises. This gallery is nearly as safe as Tony's tower."

"Nearly?"

"Ninety-nine percent as secure," May amends. "And in case you're wondering, the glass in the windows is not only art-safe, but bulletproof and shatter-proof." 

"And if there's a bomb?"

"Aren't you a little OCD about this?" May looks at him with something akin to kindness, but also with a slight edge of annoyance.

"Excuse me, but somebody blew up my apartment and then tried to kill me in the hospital. I think I've earned a little OCD when it comes to protecting S—" He stops, knowing that there are flags on color on his cheekbones. "Somebody I care about — a lot of people I care about," he finishes lamely.

"Oh, my God. This is the 21st century. You're allowed to love another man." She gives a small snort of laughter. "Get over it." 

"Thank you for the run-through of the security systems and the excellent advice." He matches acid for acid and she laughs.

"Here I thought this would be a boring run through. I like you, Barnes. It looks like Detective Sitwell has arrived." They take the elevator back to the main floor where Sitwell is talking to Steve. 

Sitwell is wearing a rumpled suit and sporting a day's growth of beard. He's sucking down a cup of coffee like it is the antidote to a poison. "Sorry. It's been a hell of week so far. Three homicides, and this —" He waves a hand around the gallery.

"We'll be fine," Steve assures him. "Right, Bucky?"

"The security inside is good. Outside, it could be difficult. And nobody has mentioned what will happen if the responsible person is an invited guest? Not all bad guys wear masks and black turtlenecks. Sometimes they wear tuxes and cummerbunds."

Pepper joins the conversation. "We have Stark Industries trained security on the premises in addition to the electronic surveillance. Tony assures me they're the best."

Steve breaks in, sounding exasperated. "I thought the whole purpose of this show was to draw the crook out, not to wrap me in cotton wool and hide me from view."

"Steve —"

"I'm not afraid, Buck. There's no point in doing this if I'm surrounded by muscle and electronics. I won't do it unless we do it my way."

"Your way?" Bucky asks suspiciously.

"You and Clint and Jasper, with the cameras and the AI should be enough to protect me. No hired security above what would be normal at an opening."

"Steve —"

"I'm not being unreasonable."

The bad thing is, that he is right. Bucky sighs. "No, you're not. I'm in no matter what, you know that, but I'm also compromised physically."

"Then you have a great excuse to stay right next to me," Steve says. "That's what I want."

"I'll call Clint. See if he can help."

"We'll have the exhibit mounted by tomorrow evening. We could have the opening on Saturday. Melinda will take care of the publicity." Pepper looks worried, but she kisses Steve on the cheek. "No matter what happens, you and your show are going to be the toast of the town."

Steve blushes a fiery red and he ducks his head, trying to hide behind his bangs. Bucky, despite feeling like the walls are closing in on him, thinks Steve is adorable. He lays his arm around Steve's shoulder. "She's right, Stevie." He whispers. "Let's get outta here." 

Steve looks at him with narrowed eyes. "Are you okay? You look kind of peaked."

Buck feels kind of _peaked_ but he's not about to tell Steve that. "I just need to get off my feet for a while."

Pepper, looks around and finds Happy talking to Melinda. She motions him over. "Hap, I think we've finished. Would you take Steve and James back to the tower? Tell Tony I'll be there soon. Melinda will drive me."

"You should come with us, ma'am." Happy does not look like his name.

"Do you think I won't be safe with Melinda? Should I tell her that you doubt her capabilities?"

Happy's eyes widen. "No, ma'am. I trust her explicitly."

Pepper laughs softly. "Go, I'll be fine."

Bucky just wants to get off his leg and away from the gallery. He can feel panic eating at the edges of his mind, and he needs quiet for himself and safety for Steve. He makes sure that Steve is screened by Happy and himself as they get into the limo, and is relieved when the door closes and they drive away. 

**TBC**


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bucky has a crisis. Steve reaches out to Sam, Clint and Natasha to help him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm having house guests this week, so I don't know if I'll have much time to write. I thought I'd give you a short chapter tonight -- which has to be better than none, I hope! I'll have an update in a week, but don't hold your breath. I tried not to leave this on a cliffhanger!

_Chapter 16_

Two things wake Steve; the awareness that he is alone in bed, and a soft, repeating chime that he recognizes as Jarvis being discreet. He scrubs the sleep from his eyes. "Jarvis?" he asks quietly. "Jarvis? Where is James?"

"I am sorry to wake you. It is 4:15am. James is in the living area. I believe he is in some distress."

Steve swears softly and reaches for his robe at the foot of the bed. The floor is warm beneath his bare feet, for which he is grateful, but scarcely notices tonight. The living area is dark, with moonlight streaming through the windows. "Bucky?" 

The answer is silence. Steve walks softly to the front of the couch. Bucky is sitting on the floor, his knees drawn up, and he's _shaking_. His head is down on his knees, his face hidden by the crook of his arm and the fall of his hair. He's not wearing a robe and even though the temperature of the room is comfortable, the icy blue light on his skin is cold. 

Steve kneels beside him, not touching him, but close enough that if Bucky would reach out to him, he'll be there. "Hey, Buck. Mind if I sit here? Stark sure made this place nice, didn't he? I wish I could paint this light." He talks a bit more about the art, hoping to find some way to ground Bucky in the present. He's read a lot on the internet about PTSD, about self-care, and he knows Bucky hasn't been doing that. Steve feels a pang of guilt that maybe _he_ should have made Bucky take better care of himself.

"I'm sorry, Bucky. I haven't been a very good friend lately." Tentatively, he rests his hand on Bucky's shoulder. He can feel the shudders running through Bucky's body, how sharp his collarbone and crown of his shoulder feel under his palm. He blinks back his tears. "Bucky, please, talk to me?"

Something in Steve's voice finally seems to reach through Bucky's panic. He reaches for Steve's hand and Steve takes it gently, his thumbs stroking over the back on Bucky's hand. "See, I'm here, Buck, and I'm not going anywhere, so you can hang on to me." Bucky's breathing starts slowing and his body relaxes fractionally. He leans into Steve, and his breath hitches. 

"I'm sorry," he rasps, like he hasn't spoken in years, not a few hours. He pulls his hand from Steve's and wipes the tears off his cheeks. 

"Why are you apologizing?" Steve doesn't understand. 

"I pushed you into this," Bucky says. "If I hadn't gotten Coulson and Sitwell involved, we'd still have a home, you'd have your art. You wouldn't be in danger … "

"Look at me." He pulls back. "Look at me," he repeats. Bucky raises his eyes to Steve. His irises are almost silver in the moonlight, impossibly beautiful. "When you found me, I was on the verge of being homeless. I was sick and alone. You are the bravest man I know and will probably ever know. We're where we are because I wanted it, not because you bullied me into it. You got that?"

"I can't protect you, Stevie. I'm not good enough. I'm not strong enough."

"Bucky, is that what set this off? Because you're more than good enough, more than strong enough for me."

Bucky shakes his head. "You don't understand, Stevie. You can't."

"Maybe you should let me be the judge of that. Please, talk to me. Tell me what woke you up."

"I had a dream. A nightmare. I was back in Afghanistan and the convoy we were walking with was attacked - first an IED on the road, and then an RPG that blew the truck in from of me to shreds." He takes a very shaky breath. "When I came to, my arm was hanging by a thread of muscle and tendon, and there were bodies — body parts — everywhere. Blood and dust. I can still taste it in my mouth and throat. One of my guys was about ten feet away from me. His guts were hanging out, he was burned so bad I could see bone and his legs were just gone. But, he — he was still alive, Stevie. He looked at me, begging for help. I knew what he wanted, and there wasn't no way he was gonna make it, not bleeding out like he was. I tried crawling to him, but my arm was so bad I would have torn it off if I moved another foot. It hurt so much, Stevie. I did the only thing I could. I pulled out my pistol, he saw it and nodded that's what he wanted. So, I shot him. I killed him and he was one of my own. I wanted to put that pistol in my mouth and join him, but I was too scared. Just … just a coward."

"No! Never that. Ever. You hear me?" Steve felt sick, not because of what Bucky did, but because of what he had to do. "Nobody would blame you, Bucky. Least of all, that soldier."

"Stevie, in my dream, it was you. That's what freaked me out. I killed _you"_.

He looks devastated and so destroyed that Steve can't help it. He gathers Bucky into the biggest hug a guy his size could manage. Bucky melts against him, his shoulders shaking again, but this time with sobs. Steve rubs soothing circles on Bucky's back. He had always thought Bucky's PTSD episodes were because he lost his arm, which would have been horrible enough; he never imagined the circumstances behind the injury. That Bucky had endured more was heartbreaking.

"Hey, I'm fine, Bucky. You saved my life! You've saved a lot of lives. I trust you, and if something happens, I'll know it's not because you failed. It would probably be my own damn fault."

"I love you, Stevie. I don't want to hurt you," Bucky whispers against Steve's neck. 

Steve's throat is tight. "I love you, too." He wants to kiss Bucky, but he doesn't think it is the right time. He settles for kissing his temple and stroking his hair. "Buck, do you want me to call Sam?" he asks cautiously.

For the first time, he sees Bucky smile. Small and barely curving his lips, but definitely a smile. "It's the ass-crack of dawn. I don't think he'd appreciate it."

"He would come over if you asked. I think … I think you should talk to him. You haven't had a session since the explosion." Steve isn't sure he ought to push Bucky, but this seems important.

Bucky gives him a look, then sighs and nods. "I'll call him later, I promise." He gets his legs under him and stands up. "I'm going to take a steam shower and go back to bed."

"Okay."

"Come with?" He holds out his hand to Steve.

"Sounds like a great idea." He lets Bucky pull him upright and follows him towards the bathroom. 

He helps Bucky undress, gets him in the shower and waits until the steam fills the stall before he strips and joins him on the bench. He knows Bucky is in no shape, physically or emotionally, to be seduced and Steve has no intention of trying. That doesn't mean he won't look, though.

Bucky's head is tilted back against the wall and he's breathing in the scent of mint and eucalyptus that is released by the steam. There are beads of moisture dripping from his hair and sliding down his skin in slow tracks that follow the curves of his muscles. His face is flushed with heat, and despite the dark shadows beneath his eyes and the exhausted draw of his mouth, he takes Steve's breath away. He's so beautiful, even with his scars and his missing arm. Steve realizes that he wouldn't change a thing about Bucky. His life is written in his scars, in his amputation, in the shape of his lips. What could make him more desirable to Steve? 

Nothing. He already wants to be with Bucky for the rest of his life. He doesn't know if Bucky is ready, or wants the same thing. This is not the time for speculation. He has Bucky now, and this moment is all that matters. He studies Bucky, and falls in love with him all over again. 

Finally, Bucky opens his eyes and smiles softly. "Let's rinse off and go to bed."

"Will you sleep?" Steve asks. 

"If you stay with me, I think I will." 

"Then I'll be there as long as you want me to be." He kisses Bucky's shoulder. His skin tastes like mint. 

Steve presses the control that turns off the steam and sends a gentle cascade of warm water over them. Bucky takes Steve's face between his hands and kisses him sweetly, without asking for more than to be kissed in return. Steve combs Bucky's wet hair away from his face and looks into those fathomless blue eyes. "I meant it, I love you, Buck. Nothing changes that."

Bucky folds Steve into a hug. His body is big and hard with muscle, his skin beneath Steve's hands is silky and tempting. "Thank you, Stevie. I love you, too."

Steve opens the shower door just wide enough to reach the oversized bath towels. He wraps Bucky in one first, then himself. "Jarvis, warm the bathroom up, please."

There is a soft sound of heated air filling the room, so that when they step out, neither is chilled. Still wrapped in the bath towels, Steve guides Bucky to the bed. "Lie down. I'll be right there." He gets blankets from the chest at the foot of the bed, covers them both, then helps Bucky out of the bath towel. He feels a little ridiculous being the big spoon, but it also feels wonderful to be able to wrap himself around Bucky. He breathes in Bucky's scent; the sweetness of mint, the musk of masculinity. 

Bucky's breath evens out and his body relaxes against Steve's. He's sleeping peacefully, and Steve can't ask for more than that. He prays for at least three hours of healing slumber. "Jarvis," he whispers. "No calls, no visitors until 8am. James needs to sleep."

"Shall I program the coffeemaker?"

"Yes, please. Thanks." 

"You are most welcome, sir." 

Steve hums and snuggles more closely to Bucky. He follows him down to sleep. 

^*^*^*^*^*^  
Steve is awake by eight. Bucky, exhausted by the emotional toll of the previous hours hasn't moved since Steve had taken him to bed. He doesn't move when Steve eases cautiously from the bed. Steve finds his phone and goes out to the kitchen where Jarvis has started the coffee brewing. He has a cup, then calls Sam at 8:30, knowing that he'll be in the office before 9am. 

Sam's unreasonably cheerful voice greets him. "Hey, Steve. What's going on?"

"Bucky's not doing too well since the explosion."

"W-w-Whoa there, backtrack please? I've been in D.C. for the last ten days. What explosion?"

"The boiler in our apartment building was tampered with and exploded. Bucky was injured and ended up in the hospital for a few days, where somebody tried to kill him." 

"Is he all right?"

"Yeah, physically, aside from a wrenched knee, he's good. But he's kind of a mess emotionally."

"Mmm, I can imagine. Man, what have you done to piss people off?"

"It's a long story that can wait. Sam, could you come to Stark Tower this morning? I think Bucky really needs to talk."

"I have a appointment at 9:30. I can be there around eleven. Did you say Stark, as in the richest man in the world Stark?"

"That's another part of the story. This sounds a little weird, but could you call Bucky and not mention we talked? I'm worried, but he'll think I'm more involved than I should be, so just say you're checking up on him since you've been away."

"Got it. See you later. I'll call Bucky when I'm out of the session."

"Thanks, Sam. Thank you. Just come to the Stark parking garage. It will be all arranged for you to come up." 

"Sweet." 

Steve ends the call and rubs his forehead. He needs coffee. He needs his life back, and he wants to give Bucky and Sam privacy. He calls Clint and asks if he can come over for a while.

"Aww, you and Bucky have a lovers' tiff?" Clint jokes mildly.

"I just need to get out of here for an hour or so. Bucky will kill me if I go out alone."

"And if you do go out alone, somebody else might decide to take a potshot at you. I got it. I'll be your bodyguard. Where do you want to go?"

"Natasha's. I don't know what Bucky has told her, but I bet it's not as much as she'd like."

"You're kinda devious."

"Thanks, Clint." Steve hopes Barton can hear the smile in his voice. "See you soon. You know the drill, right?"

"I've been to Stark's place a few times with Phil. He and Pepper are friends. See ya."

He dresses as quietly as he can, but Bucky still wakes up, stretching and yawning as if he hasn't a care in the world. He looks at Steve with those bedroom eyes of his; stormy blue and long-lashed. "Hey, come back to bed. I'm cold."

"Yeah? You look pretty hot to me." Steve leans over and kisses him. "Sorry, Buck. I have a date with Clint."

"You're stepping out on me?"

"Just for an hour or so. I'll be fine. I have a taste for a _vatrushka_."

"So do I. Give me ten minutes to shave, okay?"

Steve crosses his fingers behind his back and hopes that Sam will call. As if on cue, Bucky's phone rings. He gives Steve a rueful glance and looks at his phone. "Sam?"

Steve continues dressing as he listens to the rest of the conversation. When Bucky says, "Sure. Come on over. I'll be here," he breathes a sigh of relief."

"So that was Sam? Where's he been?" Steve thinks he's doing a fair job of being off-hand. 

"Some sort of seminar in D.C. He's coming over." 

"Really? I'm sorry I'll miss him."

Bucky narrows his eyes. "You can't lie for shit, Rogers. You called him, didn't you?"

Steve sighs. "I had to. After last night, I was so scared, Bucky. I had to be sure you'd call Sam and talk to him." He sits down on the bed and looks down at his fingers laced through Bucky's. "Are you angry?"

"I told you I would call him."

"Now you don't have to. He'll be here at eleven." Steve yanks his hand away from Bucky's. "I'm still going out with Clint. I've got to get out of here." It hurts that Bucky is angry with him, but not as much as knowing that he is in pain and isn't doing anything about it. He shrugs into his jacket; one of the few things he has that he and Bucky picked out together, and waits for Clint in the common area. 

Clint appears from the elevator a few minutes later. By then, Steve has worked himself into a fine state of annoyance with Bucky. 

Clint raises a brow at his expression. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing and everything."

"You want to talk about it?"

"When we get to Natasha's. I just need to get out of here."

He and Clint go to the garage and wait for the automated system to deliver Clint's SUV. Steve looks at the car, looks at Clint. "It's purple."

"No. According to the dealer color chips it's _aubergine_ or eggplant."

Steve grins. "It's still purple, with sparkle."

"You were expecting something more sedate?" Clint chuckles. "Sorry to disappoint. "It a thing of beauty, Rogers. Let's get going before Tony realizes we're on the way out. He'll find some way to keep us here just so Pepper doesn't worry." He wheels expertly out of the garage. "So, Natasha's?"

Steve nods and looks outside the windows at the busy streets of Manhattan. He wonders what all these people are doing all day -- if they wander around or if there is some purpose and pattern in their comings and goings. He also keeps an eye on the rearview mirror."

"We're not being followed, if that's what you're looking for."

"The thought had entered my mind."

"What happened to little innocent Steve Rogers?"

"I've not been innocent in a long time. I just never had anybody try to kill me before."

Clint parks in one of the few proprietary spaces in front of Natasha's. "Wait." His hand closes over Steve's forearm. "No sense in being reckless." He gets out of the car, opens the door for Steve and stays to the right and slightly behind him; both giving his a good view of the sidewalk and blocking any possible shot from sniper. Steve seriously hopes that he's just being overly cautious.

What he doesn't expect is Thor embracing him, Jane giving him a kiss, and Darcy leaving twin lipstick smears on is cheeks. Natasha is watching from behind the expresso machine. "So, you decided to come back to work?" 

Steve opens his mouth, closes it. Then, which cheeks aflame, he shakes his head. "I'm sorry, Natasha. Not yet."

Then she comes out and gives him a hug and a kiss on the cheek. "I know. How is James?"

"It's been rough. He told me about Afghanistan, Natasha. Everything. It's killing him."

Her pale skin gets even more pale. "He's all right?"

"I don't know. He's talking to Sam right now."

"Good." She lays her hand along his cheek. "Don't let him stay too long in the dark."

"I won't. Will you come to visit him? He'd like that."

"Maybe." She smiles behind a curtain of red hair. "Let me know how he's doing." 

"Sure. He's not sick, just tired of holding the world up, I think." 

"Tell him I want him back. Profits are down without the teenage girls swooning over his blue eyes."

Steve laughs at that. "I will. How about two lattes? One plain for me, one cinnamon dolce for Clint."

Clint is already sitting at the table closest to the kitchen and screened from view. Steve joins him and when they have their lattes and cookies courtesy of Darcy, Steve finally gets to the point of this meeting.

"I have a favor to ask."

"I thought you might. The answer is yes."

"You don't even know —"

"Bucky asked if I'd go to the opening to help him."

"Yeah? Well, I was going to ask if you would keep an eye on him."

"I've got two eyes," Clint grins. "And 20/10 vision in each one." 

"Thanks, Clint."

"No worries." 

They spend the rest of the hour talking about things that are absolutely inconsequential. When they leave, Steve is more relaxed than he's been in days.

**TBC**


	17. Chapter 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Friendship comes in many guises, from fellow soldiers and beautiful bosses to law enforcement, and eccentric billionaires. Also, the plot thickens.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for being so patient. I had a lovely week off, and it turned into a week off from writing, which was a good thing, I hope! No added warning in this chapter, but feelings and friendships are strengthened.
> 
> NOTE: I did a quick spell check, and proof read, but some corrections will probably happen. If you notice anything that doesn't make sense, please let me know.

Chapter 17

Bucky nearly doesn't answer the door when Jarvis informs him that Sam is on his way to the guest suite, but he decides that would be cowardly, worse than denying that he needs help. He tells Jarvis to open the door for Sam, and waits, dreading the next hour. 

Sam comes in carrying a bag of doughnut holes and two cups of coffee. He takes one look at Bucky. "Dude, what's going on? You're not looking so good." He sets down the doughnuts and tray of coffee. "You haven't been taking care of yourself."

Bucky shrugs. "I've had a lot on my mind. Keeping Steve safe, keeping assassins from killing me, worrying about the gallery opening —"

"Whoa. You need to slow down before you and me are both hyperventilating."

Bucky sighs and waves Sam over to the couch. "Sit down, Sam."

"I'm supposed to be telling _you_ to sit down. Sit down, Barnes and talk to me."

Bucky knows when he's defeated, and he's _so_ tired. Steve isn't there, and he doesn't have to be brave for his sake. With Sam, who's seen him at his worst, when he was barely functioning and severely traumatized. "It's not as bad as it was, Sam."

"Seemed like it was bad enough last night," Sam says. 

"Steve over-reacted."

"Yeah, because he's so prone to panic." Sam shakes his head. "You've got to take care of yourself, physically and mentally." He looks around. "You got food in that fancy-ass kitchen?"

Bucky nods. "Fully stocked courtesy of Tony Stark."

"Okay, we'll start there. Get over here and sit down." 

Bucky can't even protest. He sits and the breakfast bar and Sam puts a glass or orange juice in front of him. "Something to get your blood sugar up, to start with." He returns to the refrigerator and takes out eggs, cheese and a slice of ham, then rummages around the pulls out spinach and mushrooms. In a few minutes, he's sliding a messy omelet from a frying pan onto a plate. "It ain't pretty, but it's gonna taste amazing."

He cuts off a corner for himself and joins Bucky. "Eat first, then talk."

Bucky looks at the omelet and his stomach growls. He's surprised he's able to eat, but Sam has always been a calming influence. Now he finds out he's a damn fine cook. He takes a tentative bite, and it stays down. He nods. "It's good."

"Of course it is. My momma taught me right. You don't have to eat it all, but try to eat something, okay?"

Bucky nods. He manages more than half of the omelet before his stomach tells him _no mas_. Sam, however, seems pleased enough and sets a glass of water in front of him. "Better for you than coffee."

"Thanks, Sam. I'm feeling better."

"Good. Still not going to get you out of talking to me."

Bucky gives up and tells him everything, because if he can't trust Sam, he can't trust anybody. When he's finished, Sam puts his hand on Bucky's shoulder. "You done good, Buck. But you have to remember that you're not alone. Steve isn't your responsibility any more than you are Natasha's. Just because you got the dude off the street doesn't mean he's helpless. From what I see, he's strong enough to take care of himself."

"He's not." Bucky argues. "Look at him, Sam. He's so small, he's got shit for lungs, and other problems I don't even know about. He needs me."

"That's bullshit, Barnes. He _loves_ you."

"What?" Bucky's heart is pounding. "How —"

"Barnes, maybe he's not the one who needs glasses. Anybody can see the way he looks at you. The question is, do you love him enough to take care of yourself, first?"

Bucky tries not to look at Sam, stricken by how much he's revealed; left himself exposed. "I love him, Sam." He raises red-rimmed eyes to Sam. "I don't know what else to do but save him."

Neither of them has heard the door open and Steve enter. "I don't want you to save me, Bucky. I want to save myself — that's what this is about. I'm not strong like you are, but I can fight as well as you can when it comes to using my wits and whatever courage I have. Don't kill yourself for me, please." They face each other, eyes locked and trying to find words. They are so close that they might as well be kissing.

Sam stands up. "I'm feeling like a fifth wheel here, so I'll just leave you to talk it out. Barnes, don't be an idiot. Steve, call me if he doesn't take care of himself. And you, take care of yourself. I'm not a doctor, not even a medic, so there's not much I can do, but as long as you're okay, you can keep your eye on him. God help me for fallin' in with this crowd. I'm going back to the VA where I know what the hell I'm doing." He gives a salute and leaves them alone. 

Bucky speaks first. "I'm sorry about last night, Stevie."

"If I'd taken care of you —"

"Not your problem. I was being a stubborn shit. Sam knows."

Steve takes a breath. "We're in this together. You and me. Yeah, we've got help, but at the heart, it's us. I love you."

Bucky doesn't trust his voice. He folds Steve close. "Love you, too," he whispers against Steve's hair. It smells like cold and fresh air. He breathes it in. He doesn't know how this miracle has happened to him; nothing in his life has led him to expect Steve. "I'm sorry for being such a dick earlier."

"Yeah? We didn't get much sleep last night. Wanna go to bed?" He looks at Bucky through his lashes, and Bucky think's he's going to die from want.

"God, you're such a punk." Bucky lifts him with one arm and walks them into the bedroom.

^*^*^*^*^*^*^

Bucky wakes up to darkness and the aroma of something delicious cooking. He's alone in the bed and Steve's side is cool, so he's been awake for a while. Steve cooks? He gets up slowly and rubs his shoulder. It aches, like it usually does in the winter. He layers on a long sleeved t-shirt and a sweater over his jeans and pulls on thick wool socks. He shouldn't be cold. 

Steve is stirring something in a pot on the stove. His back is to Bucky. Bucky can see the sharp, delicate bones of his shoulder blades and the knobs of his spine through the thin fabric of the dark gray shirt — which Bucky recognizes as being one on his. He clears his throat softly to warn Steve that he's there. "That smells amazing," he says and walks over to the stove to rest his chin on Steve's shoulder. 

"Tomato soup. I got the recipe from Jarvis."

"I didn't know you cooked."

Steve laughs. "I know the basics. If I didn't, I would have starved a long time ago. It's just following directions. I know how to do that. I didn't mean to wake you up, though."

"Mmm." Bucky nuzzles Steve's neck. "I was cold."  
Steve shuts the burner off and turns to Bucky. "Really? Even I'm not cold. Are you okay?"

"Yeah, I don't have a fever and I feel okay. I need some of that soup."

Steve's smile takes his breath away. "Do you like bleu cheese?"

"Love it."

"Then sit and I'll feed you." He ladles out the soup into mugs and crumbles some bleu cheese into each one. "We have a fireplace. Let's eat in front of that."

"It's probably electric and it won't make the same sounds as a real fire."

"Bet it does. Stark designed it. Come on, you know it will be great."

Bucky can't ignore Steve's big blue eyes. They look hopeful, but also a little concerned. He shrugs. "Why not?" 

Steve grins at him and opens a drawer in the coffee table, taking out a remote. He pushes the on button, and the fire, which is gas, not electric, springs to life. The speakers, disguised by the mantel, come to life with what sounds like a perfect fire, crackling softly. There's no smoke, but Bucky thinks smoke would probably kill Steve, so this is better. He pulls cushions from the couch and two big, soft throws. The fireplace does radiate warmth and Bucky sighs happily. 

Steve looks at the nest of blankets and pillows. "It looks cozy."

Bucky drops down to the cushions. "It is. C'mon, Stevie. Sit with me before that soup gets cold." He pats the cushion next to him. Steve settles carefully, since he's carrying the soup mugs. Bucky takes his mug and sits cross-legged in front of the fire. The soups id delicious, he can almost believe the fire is filled with wood, crackling away, and he loves the heat. Steve finishes his soup and leans into Bucky's body. Not for the first time, Bucky wishes he had two strong arms to wrap around Steve. Maybe he should be grateful that he has one. 

He's just reached the point of complete relaxation when his phone vibrates. It sets Steve upright, looking sleepy and vaguely annoyed. 

"Don't answer it," he mumbles and buries his nose in Bucky's neck. 

"It's Natasha. If I don't answer it, she'll show up on Stark's doorstep and take down every security guard in the place until they let her in." It a just a _slight_ exaggeration. "Hey, Natasha," he answers, trying to sound nonchalant.

"How's life in Stark Tower?" She sounds pissed-off. "And why did I have to find out about this from Clint?"

"We've been busy?" 

"Really, James? Busy isn't the word I'd use, not after talking to Barton."

Bucky sighs and rubs his face. "I'm sorry, Natasha. I should have kept you in the loop. I didn't want to bother --"

"I know when you're lying, so don't even try. Have you seen Sam?"

"Yes. Just a few hours ago. I talked and he lectured. We're good."

"Really?" Her sarcastic skepticism comes through her tone. 

"Don't lecture, Natasha. I really don't need it. I screwed up, I know."

"James," Natasha sighs. "You are always harder on yourself than you ought to be. None if this is your fault, but you must take care of yourself. Promise me."

"Okay, I promise. Now, tell me how things are at the bakery."

Satisfied, she tells him that Jane and Thor have been doing very well, that Darcy is being recruited by the CIA — Culinary Institute of America — though the other CIA could be as likely with Natasha involved. As he listens to Natasha, he realized that he _misses_ his "normal" life — the one where his biggest problem was whether or not the notoriously fussy expresso machine would behave. He closes his eyes. "Maybe I can come in tomorrow for a few hours …"

"Absolutely not! Even if somebody hadn't tried to kill you, you were nearly blown apart. You are not ready to deal with the insanity of this place. We're making money, James. We'll be here when you and Steve are ready to come back."

"I'm ready now," Bucky objects.

Steve finally gets in on the conversation. "He's not, Natasha."

"James, you've been found out." Natasha's humor finally breaks through. "Take care of him, Steve."

Steve smiles. "I will, Natasha."

Bucky mouths the word, "Traitor." Defeated, he says good-bye to Natasha and turns off the phone. "What was that all about?"

"Just taking care of you, because you won't give yourself an inch of leeway." Steve kisses him gently, stilling any objections. 

Bucky sighs and pulls Steve against his body. "I don't think I need a handler, but thanks for that."

"You're welcome." 

They settle in to enjoy the fire. The peace only lasts five minutes before Jarvis chimes in. "Sirs, Detective Sitwell and Mr. Coulson are on their way."

Bucky groans. "Great." He stands up and pulls Steve to his feet. "C'mon, let's get this love-nest put away. I don't need Sitwell's comments." The cushions and blankets are in place and folded just as the door chimes and opens to admit Phil and Sitwell.

The two men are studies in opposites. Phil is calm, as usual, while Sitwell looks like a terrier wanting to shake something; all nerves and pacing. Phil folds his arms. "Sit down, Jasper. You're making me nervous."

Sitwell gives him a look that says clearly, _fuck off_ , but he sits, his leg jiggling. Bucky wonders what's going on, but before he gets into it, he asks, "Can I get anybody anything? Coffee, tea, beer, valium?"

That catches Sitwell's attention. "Coffee?" 

Phil rolls his eyes. "You had a grande latte on the way over. No wonder you've got the jitters."

"I don't know how Clint puts up with your shit. Coffee," he repeats. 

"I'll have tea. It's very calming. You should try it sometime."

"Ha-ha. I've got the graveyard shift. I need the caffeine."

When Bucky starts towards the kitchen, Steve stops him. "I'll get it. What do you want, Buck?"

"Water." He'd say beer, but he's not sure how it will work with the medication he took earlier. He needs his wits about him. "What's up?" he asks.

Sitwell speaks first. "We found the van abandoned by the river. Sniffer dogs found traces of incendiary materials. When we ran the plates, we discovered it had been stolen off a rent-a-wreck lot in Red Hook. No witnesses."  
"So, no paperwork. Any fingerprints?"

"A few partials. We're checking the employees at the rental place, but I'd say our guys wore gloves. With this weather, it wouldn't be unusual."

"Cameras?"

Jasper shakes his head. "The owner of the lot says he never thought he'd need them. Who steals a wreck?"

"So, you've got nothing."

"Not exactly. The owner said he talked to a guy who was interested in the van the day before. He said the guy was looking for a cheap van for deliveries. He described him. I had a composite drawn up. "Look familiar?" He holds out the picture to Bucky.

"Steve?"

"What?" He comes out with the tea and coffee. Bucky shows him the composite. "That's the gallery rep!" Steve says, his eyes wide. "The one who conned me."

Phil nods. "So now we have a tie between the con and the explosion. When we get the guy, he'll be charged with grand larceny, fraud, assault, kidnapping, arson and attempted murder, illegal possession of explosive devices and any other charges we can level against him."

Steve looks pleased, but also perplexed. "I wasn't kidnapped."

"The legal definition of kidnapping includes being unwillingly moved from a place of safety for the purpose of assault, fraud, and intimidation. I believe I can make a case for that." 

Bucky would rather just shoot the fucker, but he's a law-abiding citizen, no longer a military sniper with the authority to make a kill. He nods. "Good."

Steve is the one who voices what they are all thinking. "How does Pierce fit in with this? What's his end game?"

Sitwell frowns. "I've got a team working on it, but so far, Pierce is untouchable."

"What about asking Tony? These guys all know each other, right? Can he tell you something about Pierce that we don't know?"

"Jarvis," Coulson asks, "Is Tony available to come to the guest suite?"

"Master Stark is in the laboratory. He has requested that he not be interrupted."

"Tell him that if he can leave without something blowing up, his presence would be appreciated."

There is a moment of silence, then Jarvis speaks. "Master Stark invites you all to come to the laboratory."

Phil blinks. "Really? This is a rare occurrence. Tell Tony we'll be right there."

^*^*^*^*^*^*^

Bucky isn't sure what to think of Tony's lab. He knows Stark is a genius; he's seen both the good and bad sides of that — and like the man himself the lab is a contradiction; partly an astonishing electronic playground/lab, all transparent screens and floating holograms made to dazzle the eye and the mind, and part hardware store and mechanics workshop. They find Tony wearing a Black Sabbath t-shirt and ripped jeans, with grease-stains on his hands and a smudge across his cheek. He looks boyishly handsome, not at all like the suave billionaire he reveals to the public. 

"Welcome to what Pepper calls the Seventh Circle of Hell. It's where I do my best work." He grins, goes to the refrigerator and opens a beer. "I'm a very bad host. Care to join me?"

"Some of us have to work, Tony," Coulson smiles. "We're just humble public servants."

"With the instincts of a shark. I know that look, Coulson. What are you up to?"

"Nothing. Just a small favor."

"Ha! How small a favor? And how much will it cost me?"

"Not a penny." 

"Hmm, those usually cost the most. I think I need to sit down for this." He takes a swig of beer and motions to a long leather sofa and two deep chairs that make a highly incongruous seating area in the workshop. 

Bucky stands, leaning against a wall, which seems to be the only uncluttered surface. Steve sits on a barstool near him. The silence is awkward. Stark raises a brow. "Coulson?"

"How well do you know Alexander Pierce?"

Tony laughs, but not with much mirth. "Let's just say I know enough to state that Pierce hates my guts. I've managed to steal away several of his prized employees with the force of my charm. He's not a fan of my work. He's almost as wealthy as I am, but his R&D division has faltered recently, which is public knowledge, by the way. In order to recoup his losses he's allied himself with some rather shady eastern European enterprises engaging in things like genetics research and weapons development. I can have Jarvis pull up the records for you."

"It sounds like you keep a close eye on him," Sitwell comments.

"Only a fool takes his eyes of his rivals." Tony's eyes sharpen. "If you're asking about criminal activity, it's well hidden. Let's just say that it wouldn't surprise me."

"So, what is this favor?"

"Will you have Pepper invite him to a special gala preview of Steve's work at the gallery?" 

"Coulson, I won't put Pepper in any danger." Stark is suddenly cold, and Bucky can feel the dangerous shift in the room.

He pushes away from the wall. "Stark, Phil wouldn't put anybody in a situation where there was any danger. It's a reconnaissance, that's all."

"You talk like a soldier, Barnes."

Bucky lets his own danger flare out. "Just because I only have one arm doesn't mean I'm not capable of protecting myself and others. Ask Sitwell."

"It's true, Tony," Sitwell smiles. "He's a bad-ass."

Bucky isn't sure he appreciates the description, but Steve's eyes are sparkling at him, and he can't object. "I practice," he quips and Tony gives a sharp bark of laughter. 

"Good enough. I'll do it, but I'm not getting Pepper involved. My assistant will extend a formal invitation. Pierce likes that kind of formality. It makes him feel important."

Coulson sighs. "Thank you, Tony. I guess we'll see you at the gallery. And, Clint will be there keeping an eye on things. You can't do better than Hawkeye."

"I feel so much better knowing that," Stark says with a hint of amused sarcasm. Phil's lips just quirk up at the corner. 

"Sitwell, I'll have my people send over those files on Pierce. You might find something useful in them."

Phil and Sitwell both stand to leave, and Bucky is about to do the same when Tony says, "Barnes, a word?"

He exchanges a look with Steve. "Umm, sure." 

"Rogers, stay, please."

"Okay." 

Tony hitches a hip on his workbench. "First, I'm sorry about the other night. I tend to push too hard when I have a project in mind. I really do want to know why you don't have a prosthesis, Barnes."

"I told you."

"Yeah, yeah. Too awkward, too heavy, to difficult to fit, etc. I get that. I understand why you're reluctant. But what if I could make one that counters all that?"

Bucky feels the stranglehold tightening around his throat. "I'm managing fine with one arm."

"Sure, you're _managing_. But are you enjoying it? How many times during the day do you think it would be easier with two arms? How often do you reach for something with an arm that isn't there?"

"I can't talk about this," Bucky says. "Sorry, Stark. I can't …" He practically bolts from the room.

Steve looks helplessly at Tony. "He can't … won't … talk about it to you. Give him time."

"Let me show you something. Jarvis, brink up the Stark arm video." A screen appears from thin air and Steve watches as Tony reveals technology for a prosthetic that is closer to science fiction than reality. 

"Is this real?" he asks.

"Part is a computer simulation, but the design is real. I'm about a month away from a prototype. I'd like Barnes to give it a trial. Even if he doesn't like it, at least I'll know it works."

"He's been through a lot, Tony. He doesn't need to be your lab rat."

Tony runs a hand through his hair, making it stand up like a mad scientist's. "This isn't just for him. I want to make some sort of reparation for the guys who lost so much because of what Stane did to them. I wasn't a responsible person back then, and maybe if I had paid more attention to Obadiah than myself, I could have stopped it. I didn't, and I want to help those soldiers heal and have complete lives."

"You don't have to convince me. You have to convince him."

"I could use a little help."

Steve sighs. "I won't hurt him, Tony."

"Right. Just … when this is over?" 

Steve finds it highly incongruous that Tony Stark is asking him for something. If it weren't for a suspicion that Stark is right, he'd turn down the offer without compunction. Instead, he yields. "Okay. When this is over." The unspoken words are _"and all is well."_

_TBC_


	18. Chapter 18

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bucky learns something about Tony Stark from Clint. Steve talks to Bucky about his arm. And yes, there is some porn because I felt like writing it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A short, but necessary, chapter. I needed to write something warm and fuzzy before the action starts in the next chapter. Also, my brain is tired and I wanted to post something, even if it is a lot of conversation and, yes, sex. 
> 
> WARNING: M/M sexual content.

Chapter 18

Note: The idea for Bucky's workout and Tony's technology came from this video.  
[ Adaptive equipment](https://youtu.be/7zzE0JcblDw)

The talk with Stark leaves Bucky feeling like all of his nerves are raw and exposed. The walls seem to be impossibly close, even in the expanse of the guest suite. He paces like a wounded, angry wolf, then gives up and changes into his workout clothes. He grabs his bag, stuffs old jeans and a long-sleeved henley in it, and heads to the gym. 

Everything is state of the art and a little daunting. He finally finds familiar machines and work his legs until they feel trembly, then goes to the free-weights to work on his chest and shoulder muscles. He hates the atrophy in his left shoulder, and wonders if Tony has any machines that can compensate for that loss. He had worked out at the VA hospital before he was discharged, and while they had some adaptive devices, the whole process had been awkward and painful. He hadn't been in a good place mentally. The only thing that has kept him in as good a shape as he is, was his high level of fitness before the injury. He had been coasting along on that, but now he wants to maintain and improve his physical strength. He starts with the free weights on his right side and is still trying to figure out how to work on his left when he hears somebody come into the gym. _God, not Stark,_ he prays. 

It's not. Clint is standing there in workout clothes. He holds out a cuff and a stump sock. "I got these from a friend."

"Stark?"

"Would it matter if it was?" He sits down on a bench and starts pulling on his own gloves. "Stark has more room and a range here." He answers Bucky's question before he can ask it. 

Buck rolls the sock over his stump. He looks at the cuff. It's not like anything he's seen at the VA. "How does this work?"

"The fabric in the sock is some sort of conductive material. The cuff kind of just wraps itself around the muscle and expands and contracts as needed."

Bucky raises a brow, "And you know this, how?"

Clint looks slightly sheepish. "Okay, I asked. Listen, Barnes. You don't look a gift horse in the mouth, particularly if it comes from Tony. No matter what you think of him, the guy's a genius. And he really is a good friend. If you don't believe me, ask Phil. He's known Stark for a while. Sure, occasionally he'd like to taze the guy, but he also knows he's a good friend when you need one."

Bucky slips on the cuff. There's a clip on one end and Clint threads the strap through it and fastens it, looking at Bucky for any sign of discomfort. There is none, just a faint, comforting warmth and hum from the cuff. He can feel the muscles in his arm responding to the stimulation. "I feel stronger," he says, wondering. 

"Come on, let's give this a trial."

"I'm not a guinea pig," Bucky scowls. 

"No, but the tech is new. I know you're fine, so what harm can it do? If it bothers you, we stop."

Bucky nods. He knows how this works, it's not so different than the adaptive equipment at the VA, but it feels different … more natural. He starts slowly, pulling light weights with the vestigial muscles in his stump. What used to be frustrating and agonizing feels invigorating, like the muscles are really working. He wishes he had an elbow joint, but this is better than it has been since the accident. He moves through a circuit and even though he's dripping with sweat when he finishes, he feels good. He grins at Clint.

"You win. Stark is -- how can I get one of these for myself?"

Clint rolls his eyes. "Barnes, seriously? He did this for _you_. Not to lure you into testing out his new prosthetic, but to help you as you are. He's already planning to make and distribute them to VA rehab facilities."

Bucky wipes his face on his towel. "Okay. I'll have to thank him, because this … this is too much. Why would he do this for me?"

Clint sighs. "Tony is a fixer. He wants to make everything better. Sometimes that leads to trouble, but most of the time, it works out and makes life better for a lot of people. There's a reason he's a billionaire several times over."

Bucky pulls the elastic from his hair so that it falls forward, hiding his expression. Clint rests his hand lightly on Bucky's shoulder. "You deserve this, Barnes."

Bucky mops his eyes under the guise of wiping off his forehead. "Okay. I'll have to thank him, because this … this is amazing."

"Not to push the issue or anything, but if Tony can do something like this, imagine what he could do for prosthetics — Just a thought." He holds up his hands when Bucky glares at him. "Just think about it, honestly, because what could it hurt?"

Bucky isn't ready to talk about his arm; everything is too complicated. He can't give Clint an answer. He does his best to shrug it off. "I've got bigger things to worry about at the moment. I need to focus on whatever Steve's got himself into with this art thing, okay?"

"Fair enough," Clint agrees. He takes out his bow. "Time for some target practice. You're welcome to stay."

"Show-off."

Clint grins. "Hey, I grew up in a circus. What can I say?"

It's a story Bucky wouldn't mind hearing, but not today. "Sorry, gotta get going." He slings his towel over his shoulder and heads towards the showers.

^*^*^*^*^*^*^  
When he finally makes his way back to the guest suite, it's nearly dusk and the sky through the windows is a painting of red, gold, blue against the skyline of Manhattan. He takes out his phone and snaps a picture. Steve should see this. He texts the photo to him and waits for a reply.

"It's beautiful, but not as beautiful as you look standing there."

Bucky nearly drops his phone. "Geez, Steve, you're quiet as a mouse."

"I don't go clumping around in army boots." He stands next to Bucky and kisses his neck, just below his jaw. "Thanks for the picture."

"I'm not beautiful, Stevie."

"That's an argument you're going to lose." He pulls Bucky's lips to his. 

For a moment Bucky indulges him, lets him taste and explore. He wants nothing more than to bury himself him Steve, to forget everything for the evening, but he's willing to bet that Steve hasn't eaten, and neither has he. He draws back. "If we start this now, we're both going to pass out from hunger. Aren't you hungry?"

"Starving, but not for food." He nibbles on Bucky's ear. "You taste like coconut."

Bucky laughs. "Stark's shampoo. I went down to the gym. He's got quite a set-up. What were you doing?'

Steve looks mildly annoyed. "You really want to do this _now_?" His voice is throaty and his eyelashes tickle Bucky's neck, and he can't — really can't — let that go. He surrenders and Steve muscles him into the bedroom. 

Laughing, but willing, he lets Steve strip him of his tee shirt and jeans, and watches as Steve teasingly removes his own clothes. Steve is small, but his body is well-proportioned, his shoulders more broad than you would expect. His skin is pale as milk and thanks to Stark's excellent kitchen staff, his ribs aren't as prominent as they had been. 

Bucky lies there, naked and aroused, waiting for him. He doesn't remember ever being at ease with his body since his amputation, but the look of hunger in Steve's eyes has given him that back. He holds out his hand. "C'mere. I'm lonely."

Steve moves over him, scattering kisses on Bucky's skin. His lips travel along Bucky's clavicle, to his shoulder, to his bicep, his breath ghosting lightly over the scar. When Bucky stiffens slightly, Steve places a finger on is lips. "Shh. You're perfect, Buck. You always have been."

Bucky thinks he will never get over hearing that from Steve. They kiss and Bucky palms Steve's cock; warm and velvety. Steve's eyelashes flutter at the touch. "Want you in me, Buck."

Bucky reaches with for the lube and condom he stowed in the nightstand drawer. "Can't do this with one hand, Stevie."

"I know." Steve slicks up his hand. He sits back and spreads his legs. He starts prepping himself and Bucky gasps, because watching that is the most erotic thing he's ever seen. 

"You're killing me," he rasps. "God … " He can't take his eyes off Steve, off the way his fingers slide in and out of his body, the way he's biting his lip as he concentrates on what his body is feeling. 

"I've got this," Steve says, his voice deep and seductive. He rolls the condom over Bucky's erection, then squeezes more lube into his hand, letting it drip over his fingers and over his hole. Bucky pulls him up then positions his cock and watches as Steve slowly and carefully eases down. Bucky's throat hurts and he's trembling, because Steve is so perfect, so tight. He thrusts into Steve, and Steve rides him in the same rhythm. 

His eyes are closed, his lips swollen and so sweet as Bucky pauses long enough to draw him down for a kiss. Steve makes a small sound of protest. Bucky whispers, "Trust me."

"Always."

He seats Steve more deeply and begins the rock and twist of his hips that has his cock raking over Steve's prostate. Steve's eyes open wide at the sensation and he is biting back the sounds he's making.

"Let go, Stevie," Bucky says, "I've got you." 

Steve cries out, tears welling from his eyes; the pleasure so overwhelming that he's sobbing as he comes, semen spurting over Bucky's hand. The heat and pulsing of Steve's body around Bucky's cock brings him to an orgasm so intense that he whites out, barely aware of Steve collapsing over him and threading his fingers through Bucky's. 

They lie there as their breathing slows, as their hearts steady. Bucky pulls his hand from Steve's and strokes his hair. "I love you," he murmurs. "Don't ever want to lose you."

Steve smiles. "Not gonna happen." He sighs happily. "I'm with you 'til the end of the line." 

Bucky savors that for a while. "We should clean up. If I was hungry before you distracted me, I'm starving, now."

"But I'm so comfortable," Steve sighs. "Don't want to move."

"You will when we're all sticky and glued together."

"Doesn't sound so bad." 

"I'll start the shower." Bucky starts to get out of bed, but Steve grabs his arm. "One more kiss."

Bucky's not about to argue even if his stomach is growling. 

^*^*^*^*^*^*^

There's fried chicken for dinner, mashed potatoes. salad, and apple pie for dessert. Bucky has to hand it to Stark's chef, the food is delicious and easy for him to eat, even with one hand. The significance isn't lost on Steve. 

He watches Bucky out of the corner of his eyes until Bucky puts his fork down. "Have I got gravy on my chin or something?"

"No." Steve frowns, crumples his napkin and sits back. "I talked to Tony after you left."

"So, now he's using you to get to me? Damn it, Steve. You _know_ how I feel. Stark knows how I feel. Why are you pushing this?"

"You know what I don't understand? Why you're being so damn stubborn about this. He wants to help you! Why won't you let him?"

"I'm fine, Steve. It's taken me a long time to feel almost normal again. You don't know what I went through after I… the rehab, the fucking prosthesis fittings that didn't work, the pain, the nightmares. I can't do it again."

"It won't be like that with Stark. He showed me a video. This arm he's made - it's not like anything I've ever seen."

"He also made the video, Steve. Maybe he only showed you what he wanted you to see."

"I don't want to argue with you, Buck. Just … I just think it's worth a try … maybe when this is over, maybe then?" He's pleading, and Bucky can't take any more. He collapses against the sofa cushions.

"I'm tired. So damn tired." 

Steve slides an arm around Bucky's shoulders. "I'm tired, too. We'll get this over with and find a new place. Maybe go to the Hamptons and take a weekend. You ever been there?"

"Sure. I was a lifeguard one summer. It was a sweet gig. Sit in the sun, flirt with the girls, and some guys, swim, bonfires on the beach. Laying on the warm sand on the dunes." 

"When was that?"

"The summer I was eighteen. I came home after Labor Day and nine days later, the towers fell."

"Is that when you enlisted?"

"No. My mom wanted me to finish college, but then she died and Becca went to California to go to school. After that, the jobs kind of evaporated and the war was still going on. You know the rest of the story."

"I didn't mean to dredge that up. I'm sorry."

Steve looks so contrite that Bucky ruffles his hair and forces himself to smile. "It wasn't all bad, Stevie."

Steve gives him a look like an irritated hedgehog, and Bucky pulls him close. "Thanks for letting me ramble on. Sam is always telling me I should talk about it."

"Did it help?"

"I think so." He stands up and looks outside at the lights of Manhattan. "Clint thinks I should give Stark a chance. He — Stark, not Clint — made a cuff for me so I can work out. It's not like anything I've used before."

"I'm not going to push, Buck. It's your decision."

That's all he's ever wanted people to acknowledge. Meanwhile, he has to focus on getting the bad guys behind bars and keeping Steve alive. When that's over, then he'll think about what he wants, what life he wants to have. 

"I think there's more pie."

"Is that a challenge or an invitation?"

"Race you —" And the evening ends with laughter and their arms wrapped around each other as they watch old movies on TV.

TBC


	19. Chapter 19

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there are plans, heart-to-heart talks, and hot men in tuxes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A short chapter, but with all that's been going on in real life, I haven't been up to writing a big action scene. So instead you get hot men in tuxes. :-) I managed to strain ligaments and tendons in my foot, and have been walking around in "Frankenboot," an orthotic walking boot. Stuck with it for another 10 days. I hope writing will be done now that I'm not in pain. 
> 
> Thank you all for reading and commenting.

The gallery has been transformed from a nearly empty space to one filled with light, white partitioned walls, and the splashes of color that are Steve's paintings. Two works dominate the room; the panorama of the New York skyline and the Brooklyn bridge, and an other, new picture that Bucky stares at until his eyes tear up.

It is a portrait of him, similar to the sketch Steve had done that he had lost in the fire, but on a larger scale. His face is shadowed, his cheekbones and brows highlighted. It's black and white, but on the darker side of the painting, the one that shadows his missing arm, touches of red hint at the violence and sacrifices he and other veterans have endured. It's a haunting, stunning work and Bucky can't look away. He can feel Steve standing next to him, sense his fear and doubts. 

"Do you mind?" Steve asks.

"No! No, it's … amazing. When did you do it?"

"While we were at Phil and Clint's while I was waiting for you to get out of the hospital. I missed you, Bucky. I never expected to have it hung in the exhibit. If you want, I'll take it down."

"No, it's too important. I don't want you to hide your best work because you're afraid I can't take it."

"You shouldn't have to take it, Buck. You shouldn't hurt more than you already do just because I need to fill a space on a gallery wall."

"But this … it's not just about me. It's about the guys I fought with, the guys who died, or wwho came back damaged. I want people to see that. I want people to remember that war isn't without human consequences. I get that, Steve. If one person comes away from this exhibit with that knowledge, I'd be an idiot to say no." 

Steve looks around and kisses him quickly, his fingers trailing gently down Bucky's cheek. "Love you." 

Bucky turns his head so he can kiss Steve's fingers. "I've got to talk to Clint and Melinda about security. Finish the set-up and then we'll get our glad rags on."

"Glad rags?" Steve laughs. "Where did you come up with that?"

"Old movies. Old _romantic_ movies." He waggles a suggestive brow and Steve punches him lightly. He knows Bucky is dissimulating, trying to deflect from his emotions or discomfort, but Steve isn't going to call him on it in front of Pepper and Tony, who are strolling over arm-in-arm. Pepper is glowing, Stark is glowering, his eyes darting from area to area, not looking at the art, but studying the camera positions. Bucky's eyes go to the balcony running the length of the gallery. He spies Melinda and Coulson up there, and he taps Steve's shoulder. "I'm going up to the balcony." 

Steve nods briefly before Pepper takes his hand and pulls him away. "We have to talk, Steven," she says. "It's all good, I promise."

Up in the balcony, Melinda and Coulson have been joined by Clint, who has his bow with him. He's taking sights from different angles, but there's only one of him and only God knows how many of "them" will show up. Bucky's trigger finger twitches. He wouldn't mind being up here with Barton instead of wearing a tux and working the floor, even if it is to protect Steve. 

Clint comes over to him. His eyes have a dark and deadly glint to them, and Bucky recognizes it. He's seen the same deadly intent in the mirror before a mission. He tilts his head. "A bow and arrow?"

"It's what I do," Clint smiles. "Less chance of injury to non-combatants and property. And I can either take a kill-shot or aim to debilitate, which in this case might be the best option. We need information more than we need corpses."

"I can't argue with that," Bucky agrees. "I wish I could be up here."

"Steve will need you down there, Barnes. So do I. You can see things from down there that I might not be able to focus on, just as I'll see things from up here that you can't. We'll be a good team."

Bucky smiles. It's been a long time since he's been considered part of a team, and he's missed that common purpose. Ever since his discharge, he's been on his own; through the healing, the misery of the prosthetic fittings, his homelessness and despair. It's nice to have a support system. "I think we will. What about Melinda and Phil?"

"Melinda will be on the electronic surveillance, Phil and Sitwell will be our security on the ground. Phil may look like a mild-mannered lawyer, but he was a Ranger, so he's no pushover in a fight, if it comes to that. Sitwell's a cop. He makes this op legit, so we're not just a bunch of vigilantes."

Bucky leans his arm on the rail, watching Steve with Pepper. Steve isn't stupid, he has to know that this is dangerous, but there he is, putting Pepper at ease. Even Stark has lost his glower. 

"It would be a great night if it weren't a set-up, eh?" Clint shakes his head. "I hope this works."

"Yeah. It would be nice to have a life back." Bucky shoves away from the rail and makes his way down to the main floor. Steve is talking to one of Pepper's display people, sketching enthusiastically in the air, and the girl is nodding and taking notes. Steve's cheeks are flushed, his eyes bright. He looks happy, and Bucky feels like he's wearing the face of doom. He tries to look a little less grim. 

"Hey, Steve. We'd better get back to the tower and get cleaned up for this shindig."

"You mean put on our 'glad rags?'"

Pepper's assistant smothers a laugh and backs away. Steve grins at Bucky, teasing, and Bucky finally laughs, because the joke really is on him. "You're such a punk, Rogers."

"But you like me like this."

"No, I don't. I love you like this. But we gotta go."

He looks around and spies Happy standing at the exit door. Bucky waves and he and Steve leave the gallery, Steve, as usual, shielded between the two taller men. Bucky sinks into the limousine upholstery. He's exhausted, and even though he knows he should eat something, he has no appetite. It's a good thing Stark has ordered sandwiches to be set out in their suite. Steve looks at Bucky. "Are you okay?"

"I'm fine. Just not very hungry." He picks out a ham sandwich on wheat and takes a banana from the fruit basket before he flops down on the sofa. He puts his legs up on the ottoman, and takes a nibble from the corner of his sandwich. Steve brings him a glass of water and the bottle of ibuprofen. "I'm fine."

"The lines around your eyes tell another story. I think I know you well enough to see when you're hurting. Is it your arm?"

Actually, he hadn't thought about his arm. It always aches, but not more than usual at the moment. "No, just a headache."

"You haven't eaten, you've had maybe five hours of sleep total, you're probably dehydrated. Drink your water, eat at least half of your sandwich and take a nap, okay?"

"You're real cute when you get all bossy." Steve just stands there, frowning at him. Bucky surrenders. He takes two pills and drinks down the water. He forces himself to eat half the sandwich and the banana to keep the pills from upsetting his stomach. 

Steve curls up next to him and chews thoughtfully on his sandwich. "You know, I wish this was real."

Bucky's brain isn't tracking. "What's not real?"

"You know … the gallery, my show. I'm not stupid, Buck. I know this wouldn't be happening if we weren't setting up a trap. It would be nice if it was for me, that's all."

Bucky sits up. "Look at me. Yes, the gallery is set up as a trap, but that doesn't minimize your work. You saw Pepper. She's thrilled to introduce a major talent."

Steve shakes his head. "I'm just a guy from Brooklyn."

Bucky sighs. "That makes two of us, babe. When this is over, maybe we can go back to that." He kisses Steve's temple. "How does that sound?"

"Like heaven." He settles against Bucky's side. "Let's grab a disco nap."

Bucky snorts. "And you mock my 'glad rags.'" Steve just smiles. His eyes are closed, his leashes long and feathery on his cheeks. Bucky sighs and slouches down. He's asleep in two minutes.

^*^*^*^*^*^*^  
When he wakes up an hour later and goes into the bedroom, there is a tuxedo hanging on the inside of the door. The left sleeve is meticulously sewn so that Bucky won't have to pin it up. It's beautifully tailored. the fabric soft and rich. Instead of the standard bib and tucked shirt, there is a dark charcoal-gray shirt with a faint sheen of fine cotton, and a subtly patterned black tie with dark blue threads woven through the silk. He's slightly puzzled by the black velvet ribbon hung over one shoulder. 

He showers, and instead of shoving his hair up in a haphazard bun, he ties it back with the velvet ribbon, figuring that's why its there. He dresses carefully, managing the buttons and the single black jet cufflink. Like the jacket, the sleeve has been cut to fit his stump. The bottom is left open, though, which is more comfortable than if it had been sewn closed. He slips on the jacket. It fits like it was made for him — of course it was. It's useless to speculate on how Tony had gotten his measurements. He stands in front of the mirror and studies his reflection. He had expected to feel like an impostor, but even missing an arm, he looks dark and sleek; dangerous and mysterious. He's just vain enough to wonder what Steve will think of him and this strange formal look. Then he wonders what Steve will look like in his tuxedo.

He gives himself a final once-over, then turns off the lights and goes into the living area. He's looking out at the lights when he sees Steve's reflection. He turns and smiles. "You clean up nice, Stevie." 

His tux is as perfectly tailored as Bucky's, and it's so dark a blue that it's almost black. It makes Steve's eyes even more blue and sets off his gold hair and pale skin. Steve is looking at Bucky like he's never seen him before. He pauses just out of touching distance. "Nobody's gonna look at my art, they'll all be looking at you."

Bucky shakes his head, "Not likely. You're the star. I'm just window dressing."

Steve chuckles. "As long as you're my window dressing."

"All the way, baby. All the way." He pulls Steve over and kisses him, careful not to wrinkly his shirt. "So, do you want to find Tony and Pepper?"

"I guess, though I'd rather stay here. I'm scared," he admits reluctantly.

"You've got the best protection money can buy, and your best friends watching your back. We — I — won't let anything happen to you." He firms his grip on Steve's arms. "You got that?"

"Yeah. I do." 

"Let's wow them, Stevie." They inform Jarvis to tell Tony they're on their way up to Tony's suite. 

^*^*^*^*^*^*^  
Tony greets them at the door. His tux is perfect, his jacket lined in his signature red and gold. "Gentleman, are we ready for this?"

Bucky isn't sure if "this" includes the possibility of bloodshed. Give the predatory look in Tony's eyes, he suspects that Tony secretly hopes that it will. Pepper, ethereal in ice blue and diamonds looks pale in comparison, but she welcomes them warmly; giving Bucky a hug and Steve a kiss on the cheek. 

Steve takes a deep breath. "As ready as I'll ever be, I guess." He gives Bucky a faintly apprehensive glance. 

Bucky smiles, but he hopes Steve can see the love and concern in his eyes. "I won't leave your side, you know that, right?" Steve nods and Bucky threads his fingers briefly through Steve's in reassurance. 

Tony's phone rings and he speaks quietly, his hand on Pepper's arm in protection and something more than mere affection. When he finishes speaking, he looks at them all. "Well, kiddos, Barton and May are in place. Sitwell is there with Coulson. They're waiting for us to get this show on the road." He takes a pale blue coat from the back of a chair and holds it for Pepper. 

He looks at Bucky and Steve. "Coats?"

Bucky shakes his head. "I'm good. We're going from here to a warm car and to the gallery. I don't need a coat. Stevie?"

That makes Tony's lips twitch and his brows go up, but for once, he refrains from making a snarky comment, though Bucky is sure that his misstep will come back to haunt him. 

Steve, however, doesn't seem to notice. "No, I'm okay. I'm tired of waiting. I just want to get this over with."

"Not the usual reaction from a guy who's about to make more money in one night than he's had in his entire life." He extends his arm in an invitation to exit the penthouse. 

Steve shakes his head and tugs at Bucky's arm, pulling him towards the door. They ride down to the garage in near silence, get into a ridiculously luxurious limousine for the short ride to the gallery. 

TBC


	20. Chapter 20

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The gallery show is a success. Steve is a star. Bucky is a soldier, Tony is a genius and things still fall apart at the end.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This might be my last chapter until I get back from FanExpo, maybe. We'll see. I don't usually end on a major cliffhanger, but I had to do it with this chapter. I'm sorry. So sorry.
> 
> I will be working on the next chapter. If it goes well, I will post it before I leave next Tuesday.

Chapter 20

There is already a line-up of taxis and limousines at the gallery entrance. Steve's grip on Bucky's arm tightens convulsively. "This can't all be for me," he says, his eyes wide and blue in the lights.

"Why not?" Between Pepper's PR machine and Tony's star-power, what did you expect? Three or four people?"

"It's too much, Buck," he whispers. "I don't deserve this kind of attention."

"Yes, you do. You're too damn modest. If that fucker hadn't stolen your paintings in the first place, you'd have been famous all on your own."

Steve catches on to the game Bucky is playing. He gives him a little smirk. "Aw, you're just trying to make me feel better." 

"Damn straight." Bucky hopes Steve doesn't feel the pulse beating in his elbow, because, in truth, he's probably more nervous than Steve has ever been. The thought of being hemmed in by a crowd, and knowing that somebody in there is likely the brains behind whatever is going on with the gallery scams, is sending his hyperarousal into overdrive. He tries to focus on Steve. That is his mission. 

Happy pulls up to the entrance. Tony looks at Pepper. "Ready to walk the red carpet?" 

Pepper looks like she'd rather walk into a lion's den. "Bucky, you and Steve go in the back way. Happy will drop you off. Coulson is waiting for you there. Stick with the plan we set out. Tony will make the introductions, and after I speak, then you and Bucky join us on the steps."

"I don't like putting Steve front and center," Bucky glares at Tony. "I don't have any way to shield him —"

"I'm okay with that," Steve objects. "I'm more afraid of being a failure than being a target."

"You have no sense of self-preservation," Bucky forces Steve to look at him. "You _should_ be afraid of being a target, because being dead is a lot more painful and a hell of a lot more final than not selling a painting."

"We do this my way, or we don't do it at all," Steve mutters, his arms crossed and his chin jutting out. 

Bucky takes Steve's shoulders. "Stick with the plan. Don't deviate an inch unless one of us tells you. Got it?"

"I'm not a kid. I can follow directions."

"You're a hothead, pal. I know you." Bucky relaxes his grip and leans his forehead against Steve's. "Do it for me, Stevie. Please?"

Steve just nods, so slightly that Bucky can barely feel it. He straightens. "Okay, we're good to go."

^*^*^*^*^*^*^

_"And so it is my pleasure tonight to introduce you to a new talent; a young man we believe will become a major force in the art world, Steven Grant Rogers."_

Pepper is standing in a spotlight, shining like the star she is, while Tony, for once, is keeping to the background letting her take center stage. 

"You can let go of my shoulder, Buck," Steve whispers. "It's time."

Bucky releases him and taps his back. "I'll see you at the bottom of the stairs." He watches Steve step into the spotlight. The applause is polite, but enthusiastic and Steve looks so good, like he belongs there in that damn spotlight. The tux makes his shoulders look broader, the lines make him seem taller and Pepper is kind enough to stay one step below him, so he looks much taller than his inches. Bucky drinks in the sight for a few seconds, then hurries through the service door to stand in the shadows just below the stairs. He scans the room. Sitwell, in a nicely cut suit is to the right of the entrance. Phil, elegant in Dolce, is to the left. If there are plainclothes detectives in the crows, they're inconspicuous.

When the applause dies down, Pepper speaks once more. "I present to you, the art of Steve Rogers." All the gallery spots come up, illuminating Steve's paintings and there is a collective "Ahh …" 

This is Tony's moment and he steps forward. "Please feel free to browse. My assistant will be circulating with bid sheets. So, if you see a painting you like, get your bid in early. Remember a percentage of the proceeds will to to the Howard and Maria Stark Foundation. Your purchase will support the many charities funded by the foundation, including the victims of the Brooklyn apartment fire. Steve Rogers, Ms. Potts, and I will be happy to talk to you about the paintings. Enjoy the evening and thank you for your support." She exits the spotlight and heads gracefully down the stairs, her arm linked with Steve's while Tony plays to the crowd. 

Bucky steps out of the shadows and moves into place beside Steve. "Lookin' good, punk." 

Steve snorts. "Yeah, thanks." 

"No, seriously. You looked great up there."  
"It was all Pepper and Tony."

Bucky sees about twenty people heading their way. "Brace yourself. The tsunami is on the way." He steps back, but keeping close. He scans the people. All well-dressed, many of them with cell phones ready to take pictures, two of them with microphones. The first one is a small, white-haired woman, regal as a queen and dripping with diamonds that are kind of blinding. She holds out a fragile, blue-veined hand to Steve, who takes it gently.

"It's been a long time since I've seen art that I wanted to purchase for pure pleasure and not just because I think it will be a good investment." She pats Steve's hand. "Bless you for showing these old eyes something new." 

"Thank you, ma'am."

She laughs, a surprisingly young sound. "You really don't know who I am?"

"I'm sorry." Steve is blushing. "I'm just a boy from Brooklyn."

"You can just call me Lena." Her eyes see Bucky standing at Steve's shoulder. Her eyes narrow. "You're the young man in the painting."

"Yes, ma'am."

"He loves you very much." Bucky's eyes widen and he can feel the blush on his cheeks. Lena pulls him down to her so she can whisper, "I may be old, but I'm no prude. Take care of this one. He's something special."

"Yes, ma'am. I know that." 

"I intend to go home with one of those paintings, and I'm too old and too rich for anybody to outbid me." She walks away, regal, and Steve looks at Bucky and mouths "Wow!"

The next people are effusive, but they have a slightly rapacious quality about them, which makes Bucky nervous. He almost prefers the media, but then they were herded away by Pepper's assistant before they could pounce on Steve.

After the first group, there is a steady stream of guests who clearly know about art, and who don't send off any alarms. Bucky looks at Sitwell and Coulson. Sitwell looks wound up, but then he usually does. Coulson is talking on his cell to somebody, and going by the look on his face, it has to be a check-in with Clint.

"So, what does a girl have to do to get a drink around here?"

Bucky nearly jumps out of his skin. "Jesus, Natasha! Where did you come from?"

"You and Steve were too busy being blinded by Mrs. Van Rensselaer's diamonds. I sneaked in behind the bling."

"Right."

She shrugs. "So, Clint filled me in. Any nibbles?"

"Not even a minnow." 

"Tasha, stay with Steve for a few minutes?"

"Sure." She looks at him, concerned. "Are you all right?"

"Yeah. I just need to walk around. Get some water."

"Bring some for Steve. He looks like he could use it. Don't look guilty. Go."

He does feel guilty. He was so busy looking for threats that he had forgotten to take care of Steve. He'll make a quick turn around the room, then make sure Steve gets off the main floor for water and something to eat. At least those were his plans until he sees Tony's eyes go cold. He turns to Bucky and tilts his head towards a tall, handsome man who is crossing the room. 

The man is older, maybe seventy or so; his hair is thick and gold with silver streaks running through it. His body, clad in an impeccable tux, is still muscular despite his age. He's the sort of man women automatically try to impress and men either hate or curry favor. He exudes power. Unlike Tony, who carries the power of his intellect like a sword. this man's power comes from cruelty. It shows in the twist of his mouth before he smiles and in the cold, cold glacial blue of his eyes. 

Bucky suppresses a shiver and casually leans towards Pepper. "Take Steve over to Coulson. Make it look social."

Pepper's eyes widen but she nods and turns to Steve. "I just remembered I promised Phil that you would talk to him about your painting of Bucky. Can I tear you away for a moment?"

"I'd like to find out more, too," Natasha says, abandoning Bucky for Steve and taking his arm so he can't gracefully decline. 

Bucky makes his way over to Tony. "What's up?"

"That guy? That's Alexander Pierce."

Bucky's heart drops like a stone. "He's dangerous." It's not a question.

"Damn straight he is. I've been digging around — done some snooping that Coulson would probably find horribly illegal, so don't tell him — and I discovered some very interesting stuff." Tony's tone is light, but his mouth has a hard draw to it. "Pierce has been playing footsie with some very bad people. Ten Rings."

Bucky knows about Ten Rings. He imagines Tony knows more about Ten Rings than anybody since he was their 'guest' for three months in an Afghan cave. "I don't see what that has to do with an art scam in Brooklyn."

"Maybe nothing. Maybe everything. He's been courting some new allies in an organization called HYDRA. HYDRA is recruiting in Brooklyn, hiring thugs off the streets. Guess who is one of HYDRA's hit men?"

"Rumlow." 

"You're not stupid, Barnes."

"Thanks. Should I be flattered or insulted?" He's more than a little annoyed at Tony. "Just because I was a grunt in the army —"

"Shut up, Barnes. You were a Ranger, an elite sniper, not exactly a grunt. You should be flattered. I consider about 90 percent of the people in this room to be just over the moronic level."

"Pierce?"

"Sadly, no."

Bucky watches Pierce, who had paused to speak to another man, laughing jovially and clapping him on the shoulder before heading towards them. His skin prickles with danger and he looks for Steve, and is relieved to see him talking to Coulson and Sitwell. "I'll let you have a chat with Pierce. I'm going up to the balcony to alert Clint and Melinda." 

He's been well trained in disappearing quickly and silently. He makes his way up the balcony steps. Clint is leaning on the railing, hidden by the shadows. Bucky stands beside him. "The guy talking to Tony is Alexander Pierce. There's no sign of his pet assassin Rumlow, but I can't shake the feeling that he's around here somewhere."

Clint nods. "Talk to Melinda. She might be able to find him on the surveillance cameras. Don't worry, I've got this."

Bucky takes Clint's advice and goes to the room where May has the cameras running. She turns quickly in her chair when Bucky's boots scuff on the floor. "It's quite a night. I see our friend Pierce is taking advantage of the occasion to annoy Tony."

"I hope that's all he's doing. Bucky peers at the monitors. "Remember that sketch Steve did of the guy who swindled him?"

"Tall, dark hair, sharp cheekbones?"

"Basically, yes." 

"He's not in the gallery."

"How about hanging around the bar or parked outside?"

Melinda taps a few keys on the computer and small squares appear, scanning the images on the screens. Bucky's fascinated by the facial recognition software, undoubtedly developed by Stark. May shakes her head. "Not yet."

"Can you run the scan constantly in the background?"

A few more taps. "Yes." She turns in her chair. "You look nice."

"Thanks, but I'm just keeping my eyes on the real stars."

"Hmm. I don't think that's what Steve thinks." She gives him a small smile. "Go, I'll alert you if there's any sign of Rumlow."

"Thanks, May."

He returns to the gallery floor and finds Steve talking to Pierce. Somehow, he's maneuvered Steve away from Phil and Natasha. The sight makes him sick. He pushes his way through the crowd, and finds Phil standing next to Natasha. Bucky wishes Steve were a little more self- aware. Pierce is cunning and sharp, and had managed to cut Steve off from his support. Bucky knows he's looking at it like a soldier; two months ago, that would have sent him shaking into a corner. Now, it makes him feel alive. 

Pierce is talking, standing just a little too close, looming over Steve. Steve isn't looking intimidated. In fact, his chin is jutting out and his shoulders are square. He's talking to Pierce and Bucky moves in closer to hear their conversation.

"It's not for sale," Steve argues.

"Everybody has a price," Pierce says. "I've learned that money is a great motivator."

"All of the other pieces are for sale, but not that one. That's why it has a reserved tag on it."

"Whose bid? Stark's?

"I don't have to tell you anything."

All that gold and silver and expensive sheen can't disguise the ugliness of Pierce's expression. He glares down at Steve as if he were something small he could dismiss with a shrug. "I have ways of finding that information. Don't think you are safe just because Stark has taken you under his wing."

Bucky is about to intervene when Steve tilts his head up, meeting Pierce's eyes with a look so steely that Pierce takes a step back. "Are you threatening me?"

Pierce gives a short laugh. "I don't make threats. I act. Watch your back."

Bucky tastes bile in this throat. He can't let Steve deal with Pierce. He's too dangerous. He steps up, standing next to Steve and confronting Pierce. "That sounds like a threat to me," he says, his voice a low growl of anger. "I know who you are and I'm not afraid to take you on."

"A one-armed man?" Pierce is mocking him, but there is unease under his suave exterior. 

"I was special forces. They teach you how to fight even at a disadvantage. You might ask the guy who tried to kill me at the hospital. It didn't work out so well for him. Back off, Mr. Pierce." He turns to and says calmly, "Pepper says there are a lot of people asking questions about that cityscape. She's hoping you can give the prospective buyers some of your point of view on the city." It's as smooth a lie as he can tell, and not all that far from the truth. 

Steve unclenches his fists and takes a breath. "Sure. Mr. Pierce, that painting is not for sale at any price. It's from a private collection and it will remain that way."

"You're nothing but a faggot who thinks he's got talent."

"At least I'm honest about what I am." Steve turns and walks away. Bucky nods, wondering if his expression is pleasant or murderous, and not really caring if Pierce shits his pants. He is a little annoyed at Steve, however.

"Why'd you take on Pierce alone?" he asks.

"I didn't. Natasha was there, and Coulson." 

"No, they weren't. Pierce somehow managed to put a group of people between you. They couldn't shoot without risking shooting —"

"Shooting!" Steve looks shocked. "Have you all gone crazy? Who brings guns to an art gallery, particularly one that Tony has installed metal detectors at the doors?"

"Pierce could have easily bribed one of the security people to look the other way. Geez, Stevie, you trust too much." He sticks to Steve like a burr as they make their way to the cityscape. They make their way towards the cityscape, since that's where he said they were going. 

Steve looks up at him. "I'm sorry."

"What?" 

"For what Pierce said about your arm."

"Fucks sake, Steve! I'm a big boy. I can't let everybody who looks at me sideways 'cause I don't have an arm hurt my feelings."

"You look angry," Steve sounds dubious. "What did I do?"

Bucky stops in his tracks. "You let Pierce cut you off from Phil and Natasha. They couldn't get to you if Pierce decided to pull a fast one on you."

"He's not the killer, Buck."

"I'm not so sure about that. Maybe I see things differently because of my training, but you never, ever let the enemy put you in a position where you can be flanked. That's tactics 101."

"I'm not a soldier! How was I supposed to know that?"

Bucky shakes his head. "You live in a not so great part of Brooklyn. It's called situational awareness in civilian life." He pauses, his eyes level and serious, his anger gone. "I let my guard down once and you ended up losing everything you own. I never want you to go through that again."

"Then teach me how to do that, but not tonight. I think I have a painting to sell." He smiles at Bucky. "Stay with me?"

"I'm not going anywhere." He slips his arm around Steve's waist, just long enough to be more than a casual gesture, but not so long that everybody in the room will think they're a couple. This night has been endless and there's still an hour to go. At least Steve is making money, and from the look on Pepper's face, it's quite a lot of money. 

They approach a group of people standing with Pepper. She's talking about the cityscape and when she sees Steve, she breaks out in a brilliant smile. "Steven, where have you been?' she scolds gently. "I'd like you to meet …" Bucky doesn't quite catch all the words, but the people are all older, and look like they have all the money in the world. They are congratulating Steve and asking questions about the art. None of them are threatening. Bucky tries to relax, but he can't help feeling that Pierce is watching their every move. 

He gestures to Tony, standing about ten feet away and talking animatedly to a scholarly-looking gentleman. Tony catches the discreet gesture and shakes the man's hand warmly before heading over. "What's up, Barnes?"

"Pierce was making some thinly veiled threats to Steve. I don't have a good feeling about this, Tony."

"We knew Pierce was involved. This just confirms it. Did Coulson hear the threat?"

"No. That bastard Pierce managed to cut Steve off from Phil and Natasha. I'm the only one to hear it — and Pierce wasn't any too thrilled with me, either."

"Aww, you're a one-armed sniper with SF training. You can take him."

"It's not Pierce who I'm worried about. It's his damn stable of hired killers, including our friend Rumlow." His head is throbbing. He rubs his temples. "I just want this evening to be over." 

"I can't say you're wrong about that. Go, stay with Steve. I think we're okay."

Natasha suddenly appears next to him, making him jump when she touches his arm. "Relax, James. It's just me." She smiles at him. "So, did you have a nice chat with Alexander Pierce?"

Bucky blinks at her. "You know him?"

"Sweetie, I read the society pages."

"Don't try to bullshit me, Natasha. You can't afford Manolo Blanks on the profits from the bakery."

"I never said I did." She raises a delicate brow. "And how do you know about Manolos?"

'I googled it after one of the women soldiers at Landstuhl looked at what was left of her leg and said that there would be no more Manolos for her. I told her that running blades were way more cool. It made her laugh."

"You're a kind man, James."

"Nah, I'm just a soldier." He took a breath. "I'd kill for a drink right now, though."

"What would you like?"

"No, I can't. Not until we're all safe at Tony's. Besides it won't help my headache."

"I'll get you some water," Natasha says and goes to the bar, returning with a glass with ice and garnished by a lime slice. She stays with him while he keeps an eye on Steve. The time drags on, and Bucky's headache hasn't abated. 

Finally, the hands on the wall clock, which is a work of art in itself, creep towards midnight. Most of the guests have left, but Pierce is still there, holding court with a bejewelled dowager. Why doesn't he leave?

_Why doesn't he leave?_

"Tasha! Stay with Steve." He shoves her towards Pepper and Steve who have moved to another group clustered around a series of ink and pen sketches of their Brooklyn neighborhood. 

He takes off for the balcony. "May! Are you still running that facial recognition program?"

"Yes." She turns to look at him. "What is it?"

"The limousines out front — do you know which one is Pierce's?"

"Most limousines are leased."

"I don't think a guy like Pierce would lease one. If Tony has one, you can bet Pierce has one." He calls Sitwell. "Jasper, come up to the surveillance room."

Bucky can see him work his way through the remaining people in the gallery, being inconspicuous and avoiding Pierce's line of sight. Bucky wonders if Sitwell was in the military. He's never seen those stealth tactics anywhere else. It's good to know. 

"What's going on?" Sitwell asks.

"How do we find out of Pierce owns a limousine?"

"Give me a minute." He calls somebody and explains what he needs. Five minutes later he says, "Thanks. I owe you a doughnut."

Bucky quirks a brow at him. "Isn't that kind of cliche?"

"Sure, but how did it become one? Anyhow, Pierce owns a Rolls Royce. Not a limo. But it's conspicuous. If he wanted to keep a low profile, he'd rent a Lincoln or something like that. No way to track it quickly. Do you know how many limo rental companies there are in Manhattan alone? Hundreds."

"Well, that's fucked. Crap," he sighs tiredly. "We've got to get Steve out of here. Now."

"We can do that. Gas leak down the street. Have to close off the block." He grins. "I love being in charge." He calls up the NYFD. 

"We're good. Have Tony tell folks that there's no immediate danger but the gallery has to close due to a suspected gas leak. The fire department is investigating."

Melinda relays the message to Stark. A minute later, Tony makes the announcement. He's genial, off-hand, and his manner puts people at ease, but there is a crush of limousines outside the gallery within five minutes. People leave in a hasty but orderly fashion, guided by Happy and Stark Security staff. 

Bucky sees Steve standing with Natasha. He looks pale. Bucky hurries down to him and whispers. "It's a false alarm. We needed to clear the gallery."

"Why?"

"Long story, but I think Pierce has a plan, and I don't like it."

Tony, unusually grave, speaks into his lapel mike. "Happy, take Steve and Pepper to the limousine in the alley, get them out of here." He nods, his eyes on Hogan. "Go."

Pepper starts to object. Then she sees the look in Tony's eyes. It's pure and simple terror. "Of course. I'll tell May to initiate security protocols to protect the art. She knows what to do."

"Got it covered. Go, please."

Steve is looking stubborn and ridiculously rebellious. Bucky glares. "Steve, you have to leave now."

"I'm not leaving you."

"Fuck's sake, Steve. You're not 'leaving' me. I'm trying to keep you safe, you idiot."

"Who's keeping you safe?" 

Pepper grabs his arm. "Stop arguing. Steve, let's get out of here, please?"

Steve casts Bucky a look over his shoulder. "We're going to talk about this."

"Yeah, punk. We will."

"I've lost Pierce," May's voice in Bucky's ear startles him. "I don't think he's left the gallery."

Bucky curses. "Do you have everything covered? Even the rest rooms?"

"No, but there are cameras in the corridor outside. One sec … Nothing. He's not there. How on earth?" He can hear the click of her fingers on her keyboard. "The camera in the alley just cut off … I don't understand …

Even as he hears May take a horrified breath, he's gone."Sitwell, they're in the alley!" he hollers over his shoulder, as he launches himself out the door. The alley is in total darkness. Lights, everything. The only glimmer on the wet pavement comes from the neon signs on the street at the far end of the alley. 

Bucky runs towards the lights, as he emerges on the street, he sees two figures, Happy and Pepper, coming towards him. Pepper is limping, her dress soiled at the hem and knees. He runs over to her and she reaches for him. She's weeping, here eyes filled with tears.

"Where's Steve?" He takes her shoulder.

"I'm so sorry, James. They took him1" she sobs. "I tried, Happy tried, but that man, the one Steve drew — he was waiting for us."

"Rumlow?" Bucky feels sick. 

Hogan comes over to him. "He was waiting. He broadsided the limo. Hit me on the head, dragged Pepper out of one door while another guy took Steve and stuffed him in a panel van."

Tony rushes up to them and takes Pepper from Bucky. He's pale and shaking. "Are you hurt?" He asks urgently.

"No! No, I tripped in these damn heels. I'm fine, Tony."

"I'll kill him, I swear. We'll find him and I'll —" He pauses. "Where's Rogers?"

"Pierce has him," Bucky spat. "I have dibs on Rumlow. Let's find the bastards." He starts stalking down the street. 

"Barnes! Wait. Where the hell are you going?"

"I would have thought that was pretty obvious," Bucky's sarcasm is cold as the wind cutting through the alley.

"Before you go off half-cocked, listen to me. Pierce wants something. He's using Steve as collateral. He'll contact us with a demand."

"For what? He's already got all the money he needs. He isn't going to ask for that."

"It won't be money, but it will be something we have that he doesn't." Tony gathers Pepper up in his arms. "Let's get back inside. Believe me, Barnes. We will get Steve back."

Angry, hurting, worried beyond anything he's ever been, even in war, Bucky's instincts are screaming at him to go after Steve. Logic tells him that Tony is right. Reluctantly and against everything his heart tells him, Bucky has to force himself to follow Tony back into the warmth of the gallery.

TBC


	21. Chapter 21

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A mission, a near miss, and more mysteries. That's all I'm going to say.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally! Sorry for the wait, but this chapter nearly killed me! I finally got the muse back and managed to get it into shape. Not thrilled with it, but I hope you find it exciting and we're getting closer to the end of the story than we are to the beginning.
> 
> Thank you all for your patience, kind words and encouragement.

Chapter 21

The first thing Steve is aware of is the cold floor under his back. His head aches fiercely and he rolls slowly to his side, then forces himself to sit up. There is a bottle of water nearby. He tests the cap and it's still sealed. He cracks it and takes a few sips, figuring that if it is tainted, the effects will show up soon. After what seems like half and hour, he doesn't feel any different, so he drinks it down. 

He looks around, as the light grows around him. He's in what looks like a warehouse. Expansive concrete floors and old exposed pipes, rusty ductwork. The windows have been scoured by years of weather and the harsh industrial air and the light they let in is pale and cold. Where is he?

He closes his eyes and tries to focus his other senses. He smells the East River. He hears the clang of machinery in the distance. The windows are too high for him to look out at his surroundings, but he's lived in Brooklyn long enough to know what each neighborhood smells and sounds like. This sounds and smells like Red Hook. Why here? He wonders.

As the light strengthens, he can see more -- things hanging from the ceiling. They looks like canvases. They _are_ canvases -- they are his paintings, the ones stolen from the art gallery. He goes to the door and tries it. Locked. Or course. He pounds on it and hollers. "Hey! Hey! Is anybody there?"

No answer. Steve sits with his back to the wall and looks at his paintings. They mock him, because now that he looks at them, he realizes the ones he did for Pepper are different; darker, with an edge. These look simply … immature. How much of that growth does he owe to Bucky? He's never been much for self-analysis, so this is something of an eye-opener. If Pierce thinks Steve values his work over his life, well, that's just stupid. 

He sighs, drinks more water and wonders if he's meant to die here. He wouldn't put it above Pierce to do that just to mock Tony Stark. He still feels sluggish and drugged, so he lies down with his head pillowed on his ridiculously expensive tuxedo jacket. Bucky will come, with Tony and Sitwell and May. He doesn't doubt that. He only hopes he'll still be alive, because right now, he hasn't a clue as to why he's here.

He dozes off, only to jerk awake when he hears the metal door rattle open. He sits upright slowly, blinking a little in the sudden light. Two men come in; one of them is Brock Rumlow, the other is Alexander Pierce. Rumlow is wearing black combat fatigues, Pierce has changed from his tuxedo to slacks and what has to be a cashmere sweater that probably costs more than Steve's paintings. 

Steve stands up slowly. "What do you want?" he asks. Rumlow answers with a quick jab to Steve's ribs — the ribs he'd cracked not all that long ago. Steve gasps and doubles over. Briefly, he considers just staying on the floor, but that would be too easy.  
"That's not an answer," he gasps, trying to catch his breath and brace for the next blow. To his surprise, when Rumlow draws back his fist, Pierce stops him. 

"Wait. That's an interesting question, Mr. Rogers. What could you possible have that I want? These paintings?" He waves at them dismissively. "I already have them. I can do whatever I want with them." He casually takes a silver lighter from his pocket and snaps is to life, holding the tip of the flame to one of the canvases — not one that Steve particularly values, but it still hurts to see the flames curl around it, warping the frame and making the paint run like melting wax. 

"Money?" Pierce laughs. "I am almost as rich as Tony Stark, so thinking a few thousand — even a million dollars — is far, far more than your life is worth, except perhaps for your _friend_ , James Barnes."

Steve wants to gag, but he hides his fear from Pierce. "This started when you ripped off the artists who trusted you."

"Trust is for fools."

"This is bullshit. I don't know what you want from me — all I have is my art and you clearly don't value that."

"You are inconvenient. You have inconvenient friends who are inconveniently nosey and far too law-abiding. All I want from you is to back off from my business. Tell them you don't want to pursue this any further. No investigations, no involvement with Stark. Leave New York. I'll even pay you to relocate. Start a new life with Barnes. With enough money to live comfortably as long as you stay away from my business."

"That's blackmail."

Pierce shrugs. "I prefer to think of it as motivation."

Steve hates bullies, always has, and Pierce is just a bully with money. He shakes his head. "Well, maybe I'm not too motivated. I don't like being told where I can live, what I can do, and I really hate people who think their money and power gives them the right to dictate to others what their lives should be. So, no, Mr. Pierce. I don't think I'm interested."

"I'm a generous man, Mr. Rogers. I'll give you four hours to reconsider, after that it will be Mr. Rumlow's pleasure to make you think more seriously about it." He leaves and Rumlow gives Steve a cruel, feral smile. He feints, making Steve take an involuntary step back, and then laughs. "Later, mate. You and me." He leers and follows Pierce out the door. The locks engage and Steve tastes the bile in the back of his throat. 

He looks around again, hoping to find something he missed. The widows. How high up is he? He wonders about cameras, but doesn't see anything that even looks vaguely like surveillance devices. He stands up and walks to one of the windows. The sill is too high to see anything. He tries to chin himself up. He's not bulky, but thanks to years of swimming and some gymnastics, he's fit enough. He pulls himself up. The window is grimy. He can feel the dried husks of insects crunch beneath his fingertips. Not pleasant, but he keeps struggling to see out, wiping the glass with the side of his hand. The street is discouragingly far below — at least three deep floors. He wonders if he's on the top floor. 

He drops down and instead, looks up at the ceiling. It's at least twelve feet over his head, but there is a hatch of some kind, so maybe it goes to the roof. There's no way he can get up there. Discouraged, Steve sinks to the floor and wonders how much time has elapsed. Kind of a dick move on Pierce's part to tell him he has four hours when he knows damn well Steve doesn't have a watch. It doesn't matter. He only hopes the time passes slowly.

^*^*^*^*^*^*^

"I can't stand this!" Bucky slams his fist on the table, making pens, glasses and coffee mugs rattle dangerously. "I'm going after Steve." He glares at Tony. "You're either with me or against me."

Tony snorts. "Like that's never been said before. Tell me where to start, and I will."

"I'm betting he's in Brooklyn."

"Why?" Tony isn't challenging; he interested and Bucky continues.

"Pierce won't keep him in Manhattan. It's too visible, too close to where he lives. He's the kind of man who likes to keep the dirt off his doorstep."

"I'll accept that, but Brooklyn is a big place."

"Big, but crowded. He'll be looking for someplace out of the way."

"I'll run addresses, but that won't narrow it down much."

"It won't be any place personal," Bucky continues. "He won't want any evidence that he held Steve in a space with his name on it, so it will be a building owned by a company, or a holding company, maybe a warehouse. It won't be isolated, but it will be convenient. Maybe someplace like Red Hook where there are abandoned warehouses. See if Pierce or his companies have any real estate holdings."

Tony raises his brows. "How do you know this?"

"Special Forces, search and rescue, hostage recon." Bucky's eyes are bleak, his mouth unhappy. It's not a time in his life he wants to revisit. It's the stuff of his nightmares; too many failed missions, too much blood shed despite the successes. He'll do it for Steve, though. He'd give his life for Steve."

"Right." Tony starts typing and the holographic map comes to life. Three buildings are highlighted. Okay, Rambo. Tell me which one."

Coulson, who had been observing from the shadows with Clint at his side steps forward. "We can divide up. Clint and Bucky, May and Sitwell. I'm not a cop or a superhero, so there's not much I can do, and you're the guy with the tech, so we'll coordinate from here. We just need to eliminate one building."

Bucky looks at the buildings. One is only two stories high and farthest from the waterfront. "Not this one. It's too difficult to guard and the escape access is bad. It will be one of the two closest to the water."

Natasha steps up. "I'm going with Clint and Bucky," she says, casting a glimpse at Coulson. Bucky blinks. _Coulson?_ It's true, Phil hasn't been acting much like an ADA, more like director of Intel. When this is over, he'll get the truth out of Clint and Natasha, because they seem to have some sort of connection that Bucky doesn't quite get. But now, it's time to get his boy. 

^*^*^*^*^*^*^  
It takes an hour for Tony to set up comms and to show Coulson how they work. He looks completely comfortable at the big console and Tony's amazing holo-technology. They ditch their tuxedos and stilettos for black fatigues and boots. Bucky's fears have evaporated and he feels more _alive_ than he has since Afghanistan. He was a hunter, and those instincts, battered by trauma and suppressed by months of civilian life, have been resurrected for better or worse. 

"Here." Stark hands him a gun. "It's a prototype I never put into mass production, but I have some available for special situations." 

Bucky hefts it. The balance is phenomenal. "What about the recoil?"

"Virtually non-existent due to the way the firing mechanism works. I designed it to be used one-handed — ironic, isn't it?"

Bucky raises a brow. "Ironic, but useful. Thanks." He slides it into the thigh holster. He looks around at the people who have become more than friends. "Let's move out." He isn't sure why they look to him for leadership. "Clint, Natasha and I will take this building, May and Sitwell, this one. They're both likely locations, a block apart. So, if either of us need back-up, we'll be there in a heartbeat."

Stark holds out his hand. "Good luck." Bucky shakes it, surprised at the strength and callouses on Stark's palm. He's not just a billionaire playboy, software designer. He's a hands-on genius engineer, and who, Bucky is beginning to suspect, has a heart of gold.

"Thanks. I hope we don't need it."

^*^*^*^*^*^  
They ride in two rented innocuous cars which they park a block away from the warehouses, in perfectly legal lots. Fortunately, it's early enough that five people dressed like commandoes don't raise an eyebrow. The excuse they've concocted if questioned is that they're filming a movie and are stunt people scoping out the location. The docks aren't exactly heavily populated in this area before dawn. 

The teams split up, each going to their destinations. Bucky, Clint and Natasha heading towards the four story building. It's bigger than it looked in the satellite view, and Bucky feels the first frisson of doubt. What if this isn't the right building? What if Steve isn't here? What if he's … Bucky's heartbeat doubles and he has to pause. 

"You okay, buddy?" Clint is right beside him. 

"Yeah, just … had a moment there when I couldn't breathe."

"Right. Okay. Take deep breaths. Feel where you are. Natasha and me aren't going anywhere without you." He grips Bucky's shoulder. "Ready?"

Bucky nods, grateful for Clint's presence. Natasha, with her gun out has their backs, but as soon as Bucky moves. forward, she's right there. They stick close to the shadows, darting from building to building until they find the loading doors. A black limousine is parked there. 

"It's Pierce's," Bucky growls. "The bastard here. May, you there?"

"Yes. This place is a mess, no sign of entry."

"Pierce's limo is parked at our location. Get over here. We're on the north side."

"Got it. Stay there."

"We'll be here." Bucky shoves Natasha aside. "Wait here for May. Barton, cover me."

Clint catches his arm. "Are you nuts? You can't go in there alone?"

"I just want to do some recon, that's all." He doesn't look at Clint as he starts moving across the street.  


He's losing the shadows. In a few minutes, the sun will be over the horizon. He doesn't have a plan, to get into the building; he's making it up as he goes along. Steve would ream him a new one if he knew the risks Bucky was taking to get to him, but that only makes Bucky smile. _Stubborn punk._

The loading dock door is partly open. Bucky drops and crawls over to the gap he looks into the space beyond the door. It's dark, no sign of movement. Bucky speaks into his throat mike. "I'm going in. They left the back door open."

He doesn't wait for them to try to discourage him. With one last look inside, he takes Tony's gun from the holster, rolls under the door and lies still; waiting for gunfire to put and end to him. 

Nothing. He waits for his eyes to adjust to the dim light. Tony's gun is a comforting weight in his hand. He rolls to his knees and clambers ungracefully to his feet. He misses his former athleticism, but at least he's upright with a gun in his hand. "I'm in," he says softly. "Stay back." He takes a few more steps, his boots silent on the concrete floor. There are piles of crates along one wall, Bucky studies them, but doesn't touch. There is a light layer of dust on them, but also fingerprints. He tries to pry the slats open, but the wood is unyielding and he doesn't have time to look for a pry bar. He takes out his phone and snaps pictures of the prints, the floor, the shipping labels, which he can't decipher in the dim light. He sends the photos to Tony, then moves deeper into the warehouse. 

There is a freight elevator at the end of the dock and a door with a faded exit sign. Bucky opens the door and slides inside, cautious of the stairs which look like they could creak under his weight. He sticks to the end of the risers, a trick he learned overseas where the wood rotted easily in the center while the ends of the steps were braced on stronger beams. He pauses at the first landing, opens the door and peers out. Old machinery and undisturbed dust on the floor. He closes the door carefully and moves on to the second story. 

He cracks the door and smells the aroma of brewing coffee. _Fuck,_ he thinks. He puts his eye to the crack. He sees a table with four chairs, two occupied. A pair of slick, expensive shoes and military-style boots. He lifts his gaze and suppresses a hiss. Pierce and Rumlow, thick as thieves. He retreats back down to the first landing and texts Clint telling him _Rumlow & Pierce R here. 2nd floor NW. _

Clint texts back. _Need help?_

 _On my signal. Be ready._

_When?_

Bucky pauses. _One minute. Then lob a second in another minute. Start counting now._

 _Three, two, one … show time!_

Bucky makes his way up the stairs, quickly, quietly, his gun drawn. He doesn't want to use it, but he will if he has to. He looks around for cameras, but doesn't see anything; not even an alarm. He figures, nobody installs them in a run-down warehouse that is clearly meant for temporary storage. 

When he reaches the landing, he can't believe his luck. The door is badly warped, the wood preventing the door from closing all the way. Thirty seconds. Bucky wraps his winter scarf around his nose and mouth. Twenty. He tries to calm his breathing. 

"Rumlow, kill him."

Bucky bursts through the door at the same time a smoke grenade smashes through the window and starts spewing a dense, raw emission. Bucky takes out his pistol and sprays bullets across the room, aiming high, but not so high that Rumlow and Pierce will think he's missing on purpose.  


He squints through the smoke, sees Steve huddled into a corner, hears him coughing. He crawls over. "Stevie!" 

"Buck?"

"Run. Get outta here! Take the stairs. The gang's outside. Go!"

"Not without you!"

"I've got a gun. I'll be okay. You gotta get out of here!" He shoves Steve out the door, hears him stumble over the uneven landing then hears his coughing lessen and recede. He can see Rumlow through the haze of smoke. He tries to launch himself out of the room, but Rumlow tackles him and Bucky goes down hard, cracking his cheekbone on the floor and losing his hold on the gun.

Rumlow has a knife. Bucky rolls away from him, regains his hold on the pistol and fires. Rumlow grunts and falls back just as Clint's second grenade flies through the window and releases a fresh billow of smoke. Bucky shakes his head, waits for his vision to clear momentarily. He stumbles out of the room and takes the stairs as quickly as he can, despite being half-blinded by smoke and tears, and woefully off-balance. 

He nearly falls down the stairs when a bullet ricochets off the wall over his head. _Fuck!_ He thought Rumlow was down and he misjudged Pierce. He fires back, hears a grunt and then stumbles his way down the stairs and to the loading area, where Steve grabs him. 

"We gotta get out of here."

"No shit, Sherlock," Bucky wheezes. Steve drags him out the door and Clint and Natasha are there in the SUV with May and Sitwell close behind them. Natasha flings the door open as a spray of bullets dances across the pavement. Bucky whirls and sees Rumlow at the second floor window. He shoots, shattering the glass, but Rumlow has moved to another position. "Crap, he's fast!" Bucky spat out dust and smoke, intending to continue shooting. 

Rumlow's next volley dances across the pavement and Bucky feels a sharp slash across his thigh. Steve grabs one arm, Natasha's arm winds around Bucky's waist, and they haul him into the SUV and take off, tires flaring gravel and the motor roaring like a bat out of hell. 

Bucky is coughing, his leg is numb and he's having a hard time focusing. "Steve, you okay?" he says, the words thick on his tongue. 

"We have to get him to an ER!" Steve hits Clint's shoulder. "Now!"

Natasha grabs Steve. "We can't. They'll ask questions about gunshot wounds."

"It's not just a gunshot. I think the bullets were laced with poison."  


"Banner." Natasha says. "Call him and get him to the tower."

"We don't have time!" Steve argues. Bucky's pallor is alarming and the tips of his fingers were cold and clammy where they wrap around Steve's wrist. "His pulse is all over the place."

Clint looks back, looks at Natasha. "Sorry, Nat. We're going to the ER and we'll worry about everything else later. Coulson can clear it up. Call St. Vincent's and alert them to incoming."

They're only five minutes from St. Vincent's. By the time they get there, Bucky is unconscious and his pulse is weak and fluttery beneath Steve's fingers. As they pull up, orderlies with a gurney rush out, taking Bucky from Steve's arms and wheeling him through the wide doors to the treatment area. 

Steve stumbles over the threshold. Clint catches him. "Whoa, Steve. You okay there?"

"I'm fine!" He shakes Clint off. "Nothing happened to me." He won't admit that his ribs hurt and he really, really doesn't want to look at the bruise he's sure is blossoming on his side, but right now, he has to stay focused on Bucky. "I want to be with Bucky."

Natasha wraps her arm around his shoulder. "I know, but they have to do their tests first. We got him here alive, and they'll take care of him." She gives him a sharp look. "When was the last time you ate?"

"A few appetizers last night, and some water."

"Clint, go to the cafeteria and get him something. Is ham okay?"

"I can't eat," Steve says. 

"You'll eat." Natasha glares at Clint. "Get him a turkey sandwich, no mustard, water and coffee. Is that okay?"

Steve knows they're being kind, trying to distract him. He does feel shaky and light-headed. Bucky would want him to eat. No, Bucky would _make_ him eat something. "Okay."

"Natasha, you want some coffee?"

"And a Snickers. I'll call Coulson."

The doors open and May and Sitwell rush in. "What the fuck was that?" Sitwell demands. "One minute you're right in front of us, the next you're peeling off like some sort of crazy NASCAR driver."

"Sorry, but we had a medical emergency. Bucky was shot."

"Is he okay?"

"No. There was some sort of toxin on the bullet. We don't know what it is. We couldn't waste time. I'm sorry."

"Poison?" Sitwell shakes his head. "That's a new one. I think we've gone way beyond what we thought we were up against. We need to get into that warehouse."

"It will be cleaned out before we can get back in," May sighs. "Mark my words." She takes out her phone. "Phil, we have a situation. Sitwell and I will be back at the tower in fifteen mimutes. Steve is fine. Bucky isn't. We'll explain when we get there. If you have any pull, you might want to contact the ER at St. Vincent's and see if you can convince them not to file a police report on a shooting." She nods. "We will. Got it."

Steve thinks his lack of food must be affecting his brain. He looks at May. "I thought you worked for Pepper. What's going on?"

The ER door opens and Dr. Cage strides in. He stops short when he sees Steve. "I remember you. Steve Rogers, right?"

"Yes. How's James?"

"Stable. The toxin was a quick-acting paralytic used in medical procedures. The dose was much higher, nearly fatal, but we were able to give him the inhibitor and put him on a respirator until it takes effect. We expect that to be in about two hours. He'll need to be here overnight for fluid replacemenet and monitoring, but he should be all right. You got him here just in time. A few more minutes and we would have been past the point where our medications could save him."

Steve's knees seem have turned to jelly. He sinks down to a chair. "Can I see him?"

"In an hour. Right now, he's still critical. As soon as we're certain the inhibitor has cleared the toxin and he's off the respirator, we'll upgrade him and take him to ICU."

Natasha nods. "Good."

"Good?" 

"Yes. The monitoring in ICU is as good as a security guard — better."

"Yeah, I kind of remember that," Steve sighs. "Thank you, Dr. Cage." Natasha gives him her phone number. Let us know when he's being moved. We're going to get Steve here some food."  
Cage laughs. "Kind of formal for the cafeteria in this joint."

Steve looks down at his tux, dusty and torn. "It was an interesting night."

"I won't even ask," Cage rumbles. "I'll have the desk call you when we move Barnes upstairs." He leaves, his coat fluttering behind him. 

Natasha takes Steve's arm. "Come on, let's find Clint and get something to eat."

TBC


	22. Chapter 22

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve and Bucky receive an unexpected gift. Just a short and sweet interlude for them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's hoping I can find some time to write, but the next ten work days are going to be very intense, so I can't promise another chapter until things settle down. This is just a little "palate cleanser" before the next action heavy chapter.

Bucky wakes up to pain. It's a fairly common occurrence, but he's not used to every muscle in his body aching like he's done an Ironman triathlon. His head aches and his throat feels like it's been scraped raw, but he doesn't feel like he has a fever. He opens his eyes. Hospital. Great. 

He turns his head and Phil Coulson is sitting in the chair across from the bed. "Steve?" he rasps and Phil puts down the newspaper.

"Steve is fine. He's getting some breakfast."

"What happened?" Bucky winces, and Phil pushes the call button. 

"Don't talk." 

A nurse comes in carrying a tray. She sets it down, pours something in a cup and hands it to him. "It's just a numbing solution," she assures him. "You were on a ventilator for a few hours, that's why your throat is sore. He takes small sips of the liquid and it gradually eases the fire in his throat. 

"Why was I on a ventilator?"

"Dr. Cage will be in shortly. He'll answer your questions." She leaves, and Bucky turns back to Coulson.

"I thought I was shot."

"You were grazed by a bullet. It was laced with a toxin, which is why you crashed. We nearly lost you."

"Fuck," Bucky sighed. "No wonder I feel like crap."

"The doctor wasn't happy to see you back here." 

"That doesn't even begin to describe it," Dr. Cage strides into the room. He looks even larger in the confines of the ICU. "Mr. Barnes, you either harbor a death wish, or you're the unluckiest sonofabitch in New York."

"A few months ago, it would have been the first. Now … I guess it's the second. So, what happened to me?"

"Hmm. First, you inhaled some smoke — never a good idea. Then, you got grazed by a bullet. Also not a good idea. Then you had the unusual good fortune that the bullet was laced with a derivative of curare, a paralytic. However, you also have friends who rushed you here, and we were able to quickly identify the toxin and administer the antidote."

"I don't remember."

"It's just as well. None of it was particularly pleasant. The good news is that you're stable, the bullet graze is healing, and there's no reason for you to be here as long as you go home and spend the next two days resting on a couch or in bed. No unnecessary walking, running, fighting off crazed assassins, or being a super-hero."

"Got it, doc." 

"I hope so, because if you end up here again, I may have to knock some sense into your thick head."

"First do no harm," Bucky reminds him. 

"No, first don't do anything monumentally stupid to fuck up your recovery or make your doctor want to do you harm. One more blood test, and then you'll be discharged." He takes out a rubber tie and takes a vial of blood from Bucky's arm. "Ever thought about a prosthetic?"

"Yeah, I tried it. Hated it."

"Mmm. Talk to Tony Stark."

"Done that, too."

"Consider your options," Cage says. "I'd feel a hell of a lot better about your chances for survival if you had two arms, particularly if you're going to indulge in risky behavior with Stark and his gang of merry men, and women."

"I have no idea what you're talking about," Bucky says, and it's almost not a lie. He doesn't want to talk anymore, so he stubbornly closes his eyes and pretends he's sleeping. He hears Cage leave the room, almost like his bulk displaces the calm of the room. As for Stard, he knows he'll end up back at the tower, but he wishes that he had Steve had their old place back, shitty as it was, it was still home. 

To his surprise, he does doze off, because when he wakes up, Steve is sitting in the chair. He's leaning forward, studying Bucky and nearly jumps when Bucky speaks. "Hey."

"You're awake!"

"Umm, yeah." He pushes himself upright. "Did Dr. Cage bring the discharge orders?"

"They're on the bedside table." Steve says, but he's gnawing at his lip, which is making Bucky want to kiss him to stop the nervous habit. 

"What?" He asks, wondering what's bothering Steve. 

"Are you sure you want to go back to Stark's?"

"Where else am I gonna go? What about you?"

"I think we're safe there." He sits next to Bucky and takes his hand. "Still, I'd rather be alone with you."

"Yeah," Bucky gives a gusty sigh. "Soon, Stevie. I can't see Pierce dragging this out. He knows we're on to him and Rumlow. We're approaching the endgame."

"Doesn't that scare you a little?"

"Scare? No. Worry? A little. My CO used to say there's no point in worrying. You plan ahead. You look at all your options, prepare for any contingencies, then trust in your team to do what has to be done."

"He sounds like a smart guy."

Bucky nods, his eyes filling up. "He was. He was killed by the IED that took my arm." 

"I'm sorry."

Bucky ducks his head and blinks hard. "Me, too."

"Did you? You know… love him?" Steve sounds like he's afraid of the answer. Buck takes his hand. 

"Did I love him?" Bucky takes a breath. "I would have followed him anywhere. I would have died for him."

"Oh." Steve looks crestfallen. Bucky lifts his chin and kisses him. "I loved him as a human being, as a leader, as a soldier. He was married, with two kids; a great father. A beautiful man, but he wasn't like you." He's about to kiss Steve again when there is a soft knock on the door and Phil looks in.

"You need a ride home?"

"What? No limo?"

"Clint and I thought something less conspicuous would be in order."

"Probably a wise decision. Me and limos —" Bucky smiles and shakes his head. "I gotta get out of here. Ready, Stevie?" He holds out his hand and Steve takes it.

^*^*^*^*^*^*^  
Bucky closes his eyes, more exhausted than he wants to admit. Whatever was on that bullet knocked the stuffing out of him. He hopes he can just get up to their floor and hit the couch. He really isn't paying much attention until he hears Steve ask, "Where are we going?"

Bucky comes to full alert. He pushes himself upright. "What going on, Coulson?"

"We're almost there. It's nothing bad, so take it easy." 

Bucky looks out the windows. They're not in Manhattan. They're in Brooklyn, driving down familiar streets. Coulson pulls up to small Victorian house, freshly painted a dark green with white trim, the front door a glossy darker green. "Welcome home." Phil smiles over the back seat.

"Home?"

Phil hold up a set of keys. "This is symbolic. The locks are the best Stark tech. Security systems are top of the line, the same as at the tower. You even have access to Jarvis if you need assistance."

Steve leans against the window. "Why?"

"Because Tony, for all his flaws, would die for his friends. He felt that you weren't entirely comfortable at the tower, and he seemed to feel guilty about the whole gallery fiasco."

"So he brought a _house_?" Bucky rubs his forehead. "We can't take this …"

"Try it for a week. Please. I really don't want to tell Tony you're refusing his gift. My life is difficult enough." Coulson looks pressured and slightly desperate. Buckey _gets_ Tony, he really does, and he's too tired to fight right now. 

"Sure. What can it hurt, right?" He gives Steve a warning look, and Steve shrugs. 

"Fine. A week." 

Coulson is out of the car first, and Clint seems to materialize out of thin air. He nods. "All clear." Still, Bucky has to love how he stands to shield Steve. Bucky doesn't notice Coulson doing the same for himself. He looks around. The house is on a sidestreet off the main drag. The other brownstones are well maintained; a testimony to the gentrification of the area. He kind of misses the rough and tumble of his old neighborhood. He doesn't belong here, but Steve does, and that's the important thing. 

They go up the steps. Bucky pauses. "Okay, how does this work?"

"The doorbell is a thumbprint recognition and the lens in the brass knocker is a retinal scan, both are keyed to you and Steve. Jarvis can over-ride in an emergency."

Bucky follows the directions and the door locks disengage with a barely audible click. He pushes the door open and he and Steve go inside. To his surprise, Tony seems to have had the sensitivity to furnish the house simply … or maybe Pepper convinced him to exercise restraint. The furniture is comfortable-looking; the paintings on the walls are Steve's from the exhibit. The kitchen is the most high-end room; fine, restaurant-quality appliances, including a coffee machine that looks like the one at Natasha's. 

It's a little too much. Bucky sways and Clint catches his arm. "Need to sit?"

"I'm fine." Still, he doesn't argue as Clint steers him towards the couch. He sinks down into the cushions with a sigh of relief that he had really meant to suppress. Clint just firms his grip on Bucky's shoulder before stepping back.

Coulson comes down the stairs, having inspected the second floor. "All's secure. Remember, Javis is available if you want. The AI isn't as integrated as it is in the Tower, and there aren't the human hands to cater to your whims, so you're on your own unless it's a security or health issue." He sets two phones on the sofa table. "Stark's latest upgrade, including encryption software that should be hack-proof, tracking-proof, and with direct access to Tony's private line. Don't use your old phones."

"Wow, now I'm getting worried. All this tech just to keep us safe for a few days?"

"Talk to Tony. And your safety is very important to us all. Now, we'll get out of here so you can get some rest." He slides an arm around Clint's waist. "Ready to go home?"

"More than," Clint grins. "We're just a few blocks away if you get lonely." They head out the front door and the locks engage with a barely audible click. 

Bucky collapses on the couch. Steve unlaces his boots. "Not our couch," he says as he pulls them off. Bucky grins. "What? You think Stark can't buy more of these?"

"Don't be a jerk," Steve grins back. "Even if it is our couch, it's a _nice_ couch."

Bucky tilts his head. "C'mere, punk."  


He pulls Steve down and he nestles against his Bucky's side. "You gave us all a scare," he says. "What made you think you could take down Pierce and Rumlow by yourself?"

"I wasn't by myself." 

Steve gives him a dismissive snort. "It sure looked like you were by yourself — and if you had been by yourself you would have died." He's looking at Bucky with wide, serious eyes. "Maybe all you did was stir up the hornet's nest."

"I rescued you!" Bucky threads fingers through Steve's hair. "That was worth everything to me."

Steve blinks hard. "You're still a jerk," but he tugs Bucky down and kisses him hard. They rest, wrapped in each other and it's only a few minutes before Bucky falls asleep.

^*^*^*^*^*^*^

Steve is too keyed up to sleep and his ribs ache. He slides away from Bucky cautiously, but he's out. He tugs an afghan from the back of the couch and covers him, then he gets up and explores the rest of the house. The master bedroom is upstairs with an en suite bath and a big comfortable bed. The mattress is insane. Steve could sleep there forever, as long as he had Bucky with him. 

There is a small second bedroom set up as a studio with big windows that let in natural light, and while they can't see the ocean, the light has that same quality. It's perfect for painting. There is a balcony, but it doesn't seem like a good idea to make use of it right now. 

Next, he's back in the kitchen. The refrigerator and small pantry are stocked with staples and a few luxuries. Steve takes out two rib-eye steaks, and thanks Tony Stark because Bucky needs protein; he's been looking too thin. The eating area overlooks the small, but private yard and deck. Steve could imagine himself and Bucky, in better times, living here, having friends over to laugh and talk. Sitting on the big double lounge chair and snuggling in front of the small fireplace. It's a seductive vision. He doesn't know if that life will ever be in their reach. _But it could be_ a traitorous voice whispers to him. _It could be …_

He gives himself a mental shake and goes back to thinking about dinner. In addition to the steaks, he cuts up potatoes for the oven fries, and finds some fresh broccoli in the vegetable drawer. He's finishing up the prep when Bucky wanders in, his hair sleep-mussed and his eyes still drowsy. He takes Steve's breath away. 

"You've been busy." He smiles and stands next to Steve at the island. "What's for dinner?"

"Steak, oven fries, broccoli. You're in charge of the steaks. The stove has a grill. It's really nice."

"Says the man who doesn't cook."  


"I cook!" Steve objects. He grabs Bucky by the front of his hoodie and kisses him. He can feel Bucky smiling against his lips, and he thinks this is the way it should be for them for the rest of their lives.

TBC


	23. Chapter 23

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve calls Sam to the rescue when Bucky has a bad morning. They come to a decision regarding their options. Sam isn't happy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A very short chapter because y'all have been SO patient. I promise to work on the next Chapter and have it up faster than this last one!

Chapter 23

The next morning, Steve wakes up to a gray sky and the sound of sleet beating on the windows. The weather, contrary as always in February, has turned from the promise of an early spring back to winter overnight. The bed is cold; Bucky must have been awake at dawn. Steve vaguely remembers that Tony, always prepared, _or maybe that was Pepper_ , had terry robes hung in the bathroom. He shoves his arms into the too long sleeves and belts it tightly over his sleep pants. Bucky must have taken the other robe. 

He smells coffee as he comes down the stairs. Bucky is sitting on the living room couch, wrapped not only in the robe, but in a fleece throw. He looks as gray and miserable as the weather outside. He looks up and smiles wanly. "Hey."

"Buck, are you okay?" 

He nods, winces. "The weather changes and everything fuckin' hurts."

"You have painkillers," Steve reminds him. 

"They make me sleepy and slow. I can't do that right now."

"Why? We're fine. We're protected. Take your damn pills. You look terrible." Steve's morning temper makes him sound older, harder. "Sorry,"

"There's coffee. Stark programmed it for 7am." 

"I would thank God, but I think Tony would take it as a personal compliment."

Bucky gives a short bark of laughter. "Yeah, right." He holds out his mug. "I could use some more coffee while you're up."

Steve goes into the kitchen and pours two mugs of coffee. He puts sugar and cream in Bucky's and takes them into the living room. Bucky takes one sip and grimaces. "What is this shit?"

"Coffee with cream and sugar. You need the sugar and the cream is easier on your stomach."

"Yeah, Doc. Thanks." 

Steve sighs. "Speaking of docs … maybe you should have Dr. Cage give you a quick look. Make sure that you're body is metabolizing the toxin like it should."

"I'm fine, Steve," Bucky sighs, his exasperation clear. "I can handle this."

"The thing is, you don't have to." Steve sits next to Bucky. "What would it hurt? It would make me feel better." 

"That's blackmail."

"Did it work?"

"Yeah, I'll see him tomorrow. I can't deal with it today, please Stevie. Let's just stay here in front of the fire today?"

Bucky's eyes are huge, pleading. Steve has never seen Bucky so vulnerable, so fragile and it shakes him. Steve melts. "Okay. Today we stay in and cuddle. But tomorrow, you need to talk to Sam and see Dr. Cage. I mean it."

"Okay." He shivers slightly, and Steve turns up the gas fireplace and bumps the thermometer up a few degrees. "I'll make some breakfast. Eggs and sausage?"

Bucky nods. "I'm not very hungry."

"You should eat and then take a pain pill. If it makes you feel better, I'll even have Stark put Jarvis on high alert."

Bucky leans forward. "You think I'm being paranoid."

"No! Just overly cautious."

"We thought we were being overly cautious at the gallery and Pierce still got to you. I thought my heart was gonna stop, Stevie. I tell you, I thought I was gonna die." 

"So did I," Steve says softly. "But I always knew you would find me, somehow." He ducks his head, unable to meet Bucky's eyes because if he does, he'll be an open book. Instead, he goes into the kitchen and starts cooking. When he turns away from the stove, Bucky is sitting at the breakfast bar, drinking his coffee. 

"I called Sam. He's coming over in an hour. I'm going to clean up. I'll be down in time to eat something." 

He sounds exhausted. He's hunched over, clearly favoring his shoulder. Steve knows well enough that if he offers sympathy or help, Bucky will get that thousand yard stare in his eyes and shut him out. Instead, he turns back to the stove and flips the sausage patties. He can almost feel the empty space Bucky leaves when he goes upstairs even though he doesn't make a sound. 

^*^*^*^*^*^*^  
After the fog clears from the mirror, Bucky looks at his reflection. The heat from the shower has put some color on his cheeks, and he looks less haggard. He dries his hair and wonders if he should get it cut. It would be easier to care for, but it might also trigger memories of his time in the military. Maybe a little shorter -- cut it an inch or so at time until he's used to seeing himself again. Disgusted with his indecision and fear, he manages to gather it into his normal messy style. He pulls on track pants and a long-sleeved thermal t-shirt, tugging a sweater over it. annoyed with himself and his cowardice, he heads back down to the kitchen. 

Steve has put out plates of steaming scrambled eggs and sausages and bowls of fruit and yogurt. Bucky honestly can't remember the last time he ate a full meal. No wonder he looks like crap. "It's good, Stevie. Thanks."

Steve, who probably hasn't been eating much either, is working his way through his own plate. "It's just eggs and sausage."

Bucky grins. "Says the cook. Is there more?"

"Sure. In the warming drawer."

"Umm … " Bucky looks around. "We have a _warming_ drawer?"

"You know Tony. No stone left unturned or luxury left out." Steve takes the plates out of what looks like a plain drawer below the stove. "I might get used to this."

Bucky smiles. "It's a nice place. But we can't take this as a gift. Have you looked at the real estate prices in this neighborhood? It's not exactly like the old place."

Steve sighs. "I know. But maybe you deserve this. Maybe _we_ do. Tony has lawyers who can draw up some sort of lease agreement that maybe we could afford, yeah?"

Bucky, as much as he doesn't believe there is any way in hell he'd be able to live here, says for Steve's sake. "Yeah. Maybe."

He saved by the chime of the doorbell and JJarvis discreetly announcing Sam's arrival. Bucky answers the door and Sam looks around appreciatively. "Nice digs, man."

"Tony's idea of a safe house. C'mon in."

They settle on the couch. Steve hovers in the background. "I'll just … go upstairs or something."

Bucky turns to him. "No. You've been kidnapped, nearly killed. You need this as much as I do." When Steve starts to demur, Bucky stops him. "Don't even think it, Rogers."

Steve gives him a rebellious look, but sits on the couch next to Bucky.

Sam looks at them. "Why do I have a feeling I'm going to have a hard time today?"

Bucky shrugs. "I'm okay. At least as okay as I ever am." He gives Sam a worn, half-smile. 

"So, tell me how you really are." 

It's familiar, safe. Bucky relaxes. "Well, I went to this really cool opening at an art gallery. It was great until the artist was kidnapped." His voice turns icy and Steve can't look at him. 

"It wasn't my fault."

"I didn't say it was! But, Jesus, Steve. I can't be with you 24/7. I can't give you the protection you need. I can't sleep, I can't eat, I can't hardly breathe when I think about Rumlow — and I saw your ribs. You can't hide those bruises from me."

Sam intervenes. "What .. wait. Bruises?"

"It's nothing. Rumlow punched me. It's not the first time a bully's done it. I'm fine."

Sam takes a look at the rebellious set of Steve's mouth, at the way Bucky's brows are drawn level. Put these two together and they'd take on the world, and probably win despite themselves. He shakes his head. "Do me a favor and let the police and the feds take care of Pierce and Rumlow. You two need to lie low for a while. Give yourselves time to heal."

"I don't do passive," Bucky growls and Sam throws up his hands.

"You tried taking the initiative and look what happened. You nearly got yourselves killed!"

"So we hide out here waiting for Pierce to go away? Too afraid to step out our door, take a deep breath, go for a walk? I got news for you, buddy. That ain't life."

Sam's anger deflates. "I hear you, brother, but that doesn't mean I can't worry about you."

Bucky steps over to Sam, gives him a one-armed hug. "I'm good. We're good, right Steve?"

Steve, who has been suspiciously silent through the entire exchange, sighs. "Buck's right, Sam. We need to come up with a new plan. I'm not hiding, either. I want this to be over. I want Pierce and Rumlow get what they deserve before they kill somebody." 

"Might be one of you two idiots," Sam mutters. "Do me a favor at least take another day to sort things out and let your bodies heal up. And Barnes, I ain't done with you. You call if you need help, got it?"

"I got it." 

"I'm going now. See, backing out the door."

Bucky starts laughing and Steve comes and puts his arm around Bucky's waist as they watch Sam get in his car and drive away.

After Bucky closes the door, Steve turns to him and asks. "What next?"

"Call Coulson and Sitwell. See if we can come up with a new plan. But before we do that, I want to do this … " He threads his fingers through Steve's hair and kisses him. Steve takes him in, his heart pounding against Bucky's ribs. He pulls Steve down on the sofa, and they take their time kissing, touching, exploring bodies that are familiar now, but always new territory. When they are both naked, Bucky covers them with the afghan and they move together in the warmth until they find release and healing in each other.

TBC


	24. Chapter 24

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bucky and Steve return to the warehouse with Coulson and discover something interesting. Bucky realizes he can't protect Steve. He makes a decision that will change his life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Better two days late than two weeks! Thank you for hanging in there and reading. I'm anticipating this will be between 28 and 30 chapters, so the end is in sight.

It's not a surprise that Coulson arrives promptly, but it is a surprise to see Clint and Natasha with him. Bucky invites them in and takes coats and hats, throwing them on a chair in the living room because it's easier with one arm than struggling with hangars. He'll have to ask Tony if they can have hooks installed. 

"I was expecting Jasper," Bucky says, his eyes flicking to Natasha. "Instead I get my boss, an assistant DA, and his archery instructor husband."

"Sitwell caught a triple murder in Brighton Beach. Russian mob."

"I'm beginning to think that I've been hoodwinked, Coulson. You're really not a mild-mannered ADA, Natasha doesn't just happen to own a bakery, and Clint is some sort of super-hero marksman, right?"

Coulson has the grace to look apologetic. "I have a law degree. Putting me in the ADA office seemed logical. Natasha, due to certain, um, _connections_ has worked with me for a while now."

"And Clint?"

Barton shrugs. "Sorry, Barnes. I really am just an archery instructor. I was a special ops sniper in the military, then I blew out my elbow and had to retire. By then, Phil and I were together, and I wasn't giving that up for anything, so I guess I'm nothing special." He looks at Phil, who is glaring at him. "What?" 

Phil isn't about to say it, but Bucky smiles behind his hand, and nudges Steve with his shoulder. Everybody seems to be looking at him. "Okay. I'm still trying to take this in, but that's not why I called you guys." He takes a breath, bracing himself because he didn't even talk to Steve about this. "I want to go back to the warehouse."

Steve jerks in surprise. "What? Why?" He turns to Bucky. "Why would you want to go back? I mean, the police have to have been all over it, right? What is there left for you to find?"

Bucky wishes he had a firm answer. "I just feel like we missed something — like something was off about the building. Coulson, how thorough was the sweep of the building?"

"The CSU was all over the building dusting for prints, opening crates, the usual procedures. What do you expect to find that they didn't?"

Bucky runs his hand through his hair and paces. "I don't know, but something was off. Maybe I'm crazy, but I had this feeling that something was hidden that should have been visible."

Clint nods, agreeing. "I've been in places like that. Nat, remember that factory in Budapest?"

Natasha gives him a warning look. "I remember." Her voice is emotionless, but somehow threatening and Clint holds up a hand.

"Okay, I'll just sit here and be quiet now." Natasha snorts, knowing that Clint being quiet isn't going to happen. 

"What makes you you think that?" Coulson asks Bucky. 

"I can't be specific. I'm kind of off-balance anyway, and maybe what they shot me with messed up my recall, but if we don't go back, I'll never know."

Coulson takes out his phone and makes a call. "No sign of trouble at the warehouse?" he asks whoever is at the other end of the line. "Okay. I'll be going to make a recon of the building with Barnes. Don't shoot us." There is a reply, and Coulson's eyes crinkle with laughter. "By all means. Thank you." He doesn't explain his cryptic conversation. "Do you want to go now?"

Despite his arm and the miserable weather, Bucky stands up. "No time like the present."

Steve gets up, too. "I'm going with you."

"I'd rather you didn't," Bucky tries to stare him down and fails. 

"Why? I'm in better shape than you are, Buck, and I was in there longer than you were. Maybe I can help. Coulson?"

Phil looks at Bucky. "He's right. He should come with us. He'll be safe. Stark's security has the location locked down."

"Excuse me, but that didn't keep Rumlow and Pierce from grabbing him at the gallery."

"That was my fault," Steve argues. "I should have been more aware and less trusting. It wasn't Tony's fault."

"Really? And you don't think this place is some sort of sin offering?" Bucky raises a brow and waits.

"Tony overcompensates," Phil says quietly. "It wasn't his fault any more that it was Steve's. But having made that mistake once, Tony won't make it again. When I say the site is locked down, it is."

Bucky lets his anger drain away, but the worry remains. "Okay. Let's go." 

^*^*^*^*^*^*^

In the end, it's just Coulson accomanying Steve and Bucky. Clint has a class, and Natasha has the bakery. There's no reason for them to disrupt their lives for this. Bucky feels his anxiety ramping up as they drive through Red Hook, approaching the warehouse and dock area. His fingers start drumming nervously on his thigh. Steve takes his hand. "It's okay, Buck." He doesn't say anything else, just holds his hand lightly, as if expecting Bucky to pull away, but he doesn't. It feels good having something to anchor him; better than his thoughts dragging him down into PTSD. 

Steve's fingers are warm and strong as they wrap around his and Bucky takes a deep breath. "I'm okay, Stevie."

"I know."

Coulson, driving, doesn't say a word, but Bucky can see the slight creases around his eyes deepen, though he can't tell if it's worry or amusement. Probably worry. 

The area around the warehouse is cordoned off and there are a variety of police and black government vehicles parked around the perimeter. Bucky gets out and is hit with a frigid gust of wind off the East River. It's not pleasant and Steve is shivering already. Bucky wraps his arm around Steve's shoulder. "I hope it's warmer inside, Coulson."

"Industrial space heaters." Finally, he smiles, even if it is just a quirk of his lips. He flips his badge to one of the security people and they move the tape aside so they can duck under it. Inside, the promised space heaters don't make it exactly _warm_ , but it is at least out of the wind. There are a number of CSU techs wandering through the space with bioluminescent flashlights and other equipment, bantering back and forth. It's an irritating buzz of noise. 

"Can you clear the building?" Bucky asks. "Too many distractions."

Coulson nods and goes to the woman running the scene. She nods and picks up a bullhorn. "Okay, everybody. Take a break for thirty. Go get some warm coffee." Within five minutes the place is clear. 

Bucky walks to the middle of the room. It doesn't look any different than he remembered it. Brick walls, grimy windows letting in murky daylight, cobwebs hanging from the rafters. The floor is suspiciously pristine. The crates are stacked along the walls. "Did you open them?" he asks. 

"We found paintings and sculptures, some of them possibly from the galleries."

"Did you find any of mine? Pierce had one upstairs, did you find more?" 

"I'm sorry, Steve. We didn't find the others."

Bucky is walking the perimeter of the room. "Did you open all of the crates?"

"Every one. Stripped down to the boards and scanned. All empty." 

Bucky's unease increases. It's not the crates, then. He sees the stairwell, and next to it, the elevator. He crosses to the door and opens it. He'd taken those stairs, as had Rumlow and Pierce. He had hoped they wouldn't take the elevator, but they hadn't. Why not? It was faster, but Instead they had used the stairs. 

"Does the elevator work?" Bucky asks one of the agents.

"Haven't tried it," he admits. "No reason."

Bucky pushes the red button that would open the door. Nothing. Not even the hum of machinery trying to to start up. He turns to Phil. "Is there another floor? A basement?"

"Not on the schematics." 

Bucky studies the elevator. "Can we open the doors?"

Coulson gestures a tech over. "We need to open these doors."

The tech eyes the doors dubiously. "We don't have anything. Our tools are a little more subtle, but I'll bet the fire department has something." He radios out and after a brief conversation he tells them that the closest firehouse will be there in five minutes with a Haligan and the Jaws of Life.

It sounds melodramatic, and Bucky is not happy with even a brief wait. He doesn't even talk to Steve, even if he's aware of the warmth a shoulder next to his. "I'm sorry to bring this back, Stevie," he murmurs.

Steve shrugs. "We'll figure it out, Bucky. This is nothing."

Bucky can't help it. He kisses Steve's hair. "You're something else, you know that?"

Steve doesn't have a chance to answer. A big fireman strides in carrying the tools like they're featherweights. "You need some doors open?"

"Carefully. Very carefully." 

"Yes, sir." He works the end of the Haligan into the door and carefully pries the doors open an inch before Coulson orders him to stop. 

Coulson takes out a flashlight and shines it into the crevice. "No wires or obvious triggers. Open it another two inches." The fireman complies and Coulson repeats the drill. When the opening is wide enough Coulson leans inside and peers up, then down. "Looks clear, but check the electrical panel to make sure the power source is disconnected."

The fireman finds the panel and the switch. "It's off, sir. Guess they didn't want anybody using the elevator by mistake. You want me to open it up?"

"Yes." The fireman grabs one of the doors and lifts. When the upper industrial door goes up, the bottom one lowers six inches and stops. "It won't open wider, sir. You want me to force it?"

"No." He takes a breath. "Thank you. I think we're finished."

"Yes, sir. Anytime." He tips his hat and leaves them. 

Bucky is looking at the elevator, frowning. "There has to be some sort of crawlspace for maintenance. Can we winch the elevator or get the power on?" 

"I'll talk to the site supervisor. It might not happen tonight." 

For the first time, Bucky notices the windows are showing a blue twilight sky. He'd been so distracted with everything that he wasn't aware of the passage of time. Now he's feeling the cold, and he's hungry. It's been hours since he ate, maybe longer for Steve. "Let's go. I'm beat, and Steve —" He looks around. "Where is he?"

"I didn't notice that he'd left," Coulson says. "He's surrounded by security. He can't have gone far."

 _Damn it, Steve_ Bucky curses mentally, but he's pretty sure where he is. "Don't leave without me. Give me your flashlight." He takes it from Coulson and heads up the stairs. When he reaches the fourth floor, Steve is standing in the middle of the room, his flashlight playing on the ruined painting hanging from the ceiling. 

"Aw, Stevie." Bucky breathes. He crosses to him and takes him in his arms. "I'm sorry."

Steve shakes his head. "It wasn't great, but it was _mine_ , and he burned it to taunt me, to hurt me. They were gonna kill me, Bucky, and all I could think of was they'd go after you next."

"I'm nobody important, Steve. They don't care about me."

"They do! They can't get to me when you're in the way. They'd take you out for that alone. Buck,you're the bravest man I know. Stop beating yourself up."

"What are you doing here if not beating yourself up?" 

Steve looks like he's about to protest, then gives Bucky a sheepish smile. "Okay, I'll give you that one."

Bucky slings his around Steve. "You know what? It's cold and dark. Let's go home. There's nothing we can do until tomorrow." 

"Why tomorrow?"

"No power to the elevator. I think there's something in the crawlspace. It would explain why Pierce and Rumlow took the stairs."

They go down to where Coulson is waiting for them. The ride home is silent except for the soft jazz Phil has on the stereo. He pulls into the small side driveway at the house. "I'll pick you up tomorrow around eight. We'll go back to the site and look at the shaft."

"Sounds like a plan," Bucky agrees. He hauls himself out of the back seat. "See you then."

Inside, the lights have come on. Bucky shrugs out of his coat and goes into the kitchen. There is a dish in the refrigerator with instructions on it, signed _Love, Pepper_. Bucky lifts the lid. It looks like a pot roast and potatoes. Bucky starts up the oven and puts the dish inside, programs the timer and takes out two wineglasses. There is a bottle of red wine on the counter, with a tag reading, _Drink me with the pot roast._. That one is signed by Tony. Bucky chuckles, feeling more charitable towards Stark than he has in a while. He pours two glasses and takes one out to Steve. 

He's started up the fireplace, but he's still wearing his coat. "Hey, Stevie. We have dinner in the oven. Let's get comfortable and warm up before we eat." He has to coax Steve off the couch. But Steve stands up and smiles. 

"I feel kind of … I don't know … all worn down at the edges."

"Yeah, I know. I feel that way, too."

"I just want this to be over." 

It's all Bucky wants, too. He takes Steve's hand and pulls him up off the couch. He keeps him close as they go upstairs. Cleaned up, and wearing comfortable clothes, Bucky feels better. Steve has lost those vertical lines between his brows that have been there since they left the house. 

Bucky brings the bottle of wine to the couch. When the timer chimes. Bucky serves up two plates of roast beef, potatoes and fragrant gravy. They sit on cushions and eat at the coffee table. 

When they've finished, and the dishes are put away, Bucky dims the lights and finds Steve curled up on the couch, sleeping. He looks small and too damn young. Bucky feels a hundred years old next to him, and he still wonders how Steve came to love him, and what has he done to be worthy of that love. He would die to protect Steve, do anything for him. Bucky studies him for a long moment, admitting for the first time that he can't do that, not the way he is. He can't protect Steve from Pierce and Rumlow unless he faces his demons. Maybe it's time he stopped punishing himself for what he can't change. 

He picks up his phone and punches in a number. To his surprise, Tony answers. "Stark, this is James Barnes. I need to see you about … " Bucky swallows. His mouth is dry as dust in the desert and his heart his pounding. He looks at Steve, sleeping soundly. It's late, but no where near too late for Tony. "I need to see you about a prosthetic."

Tony says he'll send Happy to pick him up, which Bucky tries to argue his way out of, but Stark is adamant. Bucky leaves a note for Steve in case he wakes up, and waits for his ride. When Hap pulls up, Bucky slips out silently. Looking back on his way out, he's relieved to see that Steve hasn't moved. 

^*^*^*^*^*^  
He exchanges small talk with Hogan on the way, then lapses into silence looking at the city lights. One thing about New York, it really doesn't ever sleep. Somehow, he finds that reassuring. The thought that Pierce and Rumlow are out there as well? Not so much. 

Hap cruises into Stark's garage and escorts Bucky to the penthouse, where Tony is sitting with Bruce Banner and a woman in a white lab coat. He holds out his hand to Bucky. "You have no idea how long I've been waiting for this."

Bucky rolls his eyes. "You've known me for less than a month, Stark."

"I'm a fast study. You know Dr. Bruce Banner, right? And this is Dr. Helen Cho. Shall we go down to the lab? I'd offer you a drink, but not until after we have our little conclave." His brown eyes are bright and as excited as a kid's on Christmas day. Bucky wishes he felt the same, instead of feeling like a sacrificial lamb.

Banner and Cho smile encouragingly at him. "It will not hurt," Cho reassures him. He's been told that before, but she seems genuine. Once they're in the lab, Tony tells Jarvis to up the temperature and asks Bucky to take off his shirt.

Bucky closes his eyes and nods. He starts pulling it over his head, and feels gentle hands helping him. When he opens his eyes, Banner is holding his sweater. "Thanks." His voice sounds weaker than he'd like. He hears Cho make a small sound of sympathy.

"I'm going to have to touch your arm," she says, waiting for his permission.

"Listen," Bucky says. "I'm not going to go postal on you. I'm here because I _want_ to be here. Just keep telling me what you're doing and why, and I'll be fine. And if I'm not, I'll warn you that I need a break. So, let's get this over with."

"We can do that," Cho gives him a small smile. "I need to assess the scar tissue and the function of your nerves. First, with my hands, then with some electrodes to measure the effectiveness of the sensory pathways from your arm to your brain. It will not hurt, but there will be some involuntary movement. This is normal."

"I understand." He feels her fingers ghost lightly over his scars. 

"Do you feel that?" 

"Yes. Stronger where the skin is thinner. Less where the scars are the worst." 

"As I would expect." She continues her gentle exploration, asking questions and occasionally writing notes on a tablet. Bucky closes his eyes. Her touch feels good. Not like so many of his other doctors, They had meant well, but they really didn't know how Bucky's PTSD was triggered by their touch and manipulations of his stump. Cho seems to get it, and he wonders why.

"You work much with vets, Dr. Cho?"

"I work with survivors, Mr. Barnes," she smiles softly. "Now, we'll attach small electrodes to your stump and shoulder to measure the response." When Bucky flinches visibly as the first lead is pressed on his skin, she reminds him that it won't hurt. He can't help tensing. 

"So, you work in a bakery?" She asks, conversationally.

Bucky laughs. "Well, I used to work in one until the shit hit the fan. Excuse my French, doctor."

"You owe me a donut if I'm right about this being painless."

"And if I fall on the floor?"

"Do you like hot and sour soup?"

"I love it. So, if you're wrong, I get soup?"

"Not just any soup. Homemade soup." She smiles and steps away. "There, the leads are attached. Now all you have to do is lie down and relax for a few minutes."

It's over as quickly as promised, and it doesn't hurt. He can feel his shoulder giving small, involuntary twitches, and can feel a slight vibration from the leads, but there is no pain. Bruce helps him sit up and he smiles at Cho. "I owe you at least one _vatrushka_. Maybe half a dozen."

"What? No donut?"

"Better than a donut," Bucky promises. Cho holds out her hand. "Deal."

Bruce helps him put his shirt back on and Cho disappears into another room, presumably to talk to Tony. "So, did I pass?"

"Physically, you're in better shape that I anticipated given the amount of scarring and how much of your arm they took. More would have been better, but Tony will work with what you have."

"When will I know?"

"We can go up to the penthouse, have something to drink, and wait for Tony. Knowing him, it won't be long."

Bucky looks at the clock. It's late and Steve is alone. "Tomorrow afternoon?"

"I'll tell Tony." Bruce, comfortable in the tower, asks Jarvis to have Hap drive Bucky home. By the time they arrive home, Bucky is exhausted. He thanks Hap and goes up the stairs, knowing that Hogan is waiting for him to be safely inside. Bucky unlocks the door with the sensor pad and then enters the security code to lock it again. 

Steve is still sleeping. He's moved, though, and Bucky's note is clutched in his hand. Bucky bends and kisses him. Steve blinks up at him sleepily. "Hey, Buck."

"I can't carry you up to bed," Bucky whispers. "And if you sleep here, you'll have a stiff back and neck in the morning."

Steve yawns and sits up. "You went to see Stark?"

"I had some questions."

"About?"

Bucky sighs. "Can we talk about this in the morning? I'm beat."

"Sure." Steve stands up and stretches, wincing. "My back thanks you for waking me up." He slides his arm around Bucky's waist, pulling him close. "Let's go to bed."

Steve falls back to sleep quickly, while Bucky thinks about tomorrow, the elevator shaft, and the results of Stark's tests. 

TBC


	25. Chapter 25

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bucky meets Pierce and Rumlow. Things do not go well. He goes to ask Tony about his arm, and that doesn't go well, either. All in all, he's having a bad day. But Tony's a good bro, and Bucky's got friends now to watch his back. Oh, and Steve may or may not give him a cold. :-)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for being so patient. I've had a rough month in RL, and writing was a very slow process. But this chapter is finished, and it's a bit longer than the previous ones. I hope it's worth it!

Chapter 25

Two things wake Bucky the next morning. First, he's too warm, and second, Steve's breathing sounds harsh and difficult. He sits up and puts his hand on Steve's forehead. It's scorching against his palm. Bucky's assailed by guilt. He should _never_ have dragged Steve out to the warehouse yesterday. 

"Stevie?" he says softly, but with a firm edge to his voice. "Hey, Stevie. You have to wake up so I can get some aspirin down you. C'mon, babe. You hear me?"

Steve mumbles and coughs, waking himself up. His eyes are wide and red-rimmed. "Buck? Go away. I just wanna sleep."

"I know. Stay awake for a minute, okay? For me?"

Steve coughs again, and that jars him into full consciousness. "I'm sick."

"Yeah, I figured that one out." He kisses Steve's hot forehead. "I'll be back." 

He gets aspirin, a big glass of water and Steve's inhaler. "Aspirin first, then water, then inhaler. Okay?"

Steve nods and takes the pills and water. "Tea?"

"I can do that, too." Bucky pulls on his robe and goes to the kitchen where he brews up a cup of honey bush tea with milk and a pour of extra honey. It's cloyingly sweet, but it will soothe Steve's throat. He takes it up to the bedroom.

Steve is sitting propped up with pillows and looking nearly as white as the linens. "I breathed on you all night," he says. "You'll end up getting this crap."

"Me? Nah, I'm healthy as a horse. I never get sick, and even if I do, it'll just be a cold. I've survived those."

"You're disgusting," Steve grimaces and takes a sip of the tea. 

"Yeah, you say that now." Bucky gets up and rustles through the chest of drawers, pulling out jeans, and a gray turtleneck. "I've got to get dressed."

"Give me half an hour and I'll be ready."

"Ready?" Bucky raises a brow. "Ready to go back to sleep, because that's the only place you're going."

"I'm fine."

"Steve, you have a _fever_! You're coughing up a lung and you look like death warmed over. You are not going out in this weather." He's aware of Steve watching as he pulls on his jeans and sweater. He tosses an elastic hairband to Steve. "Knot this up for me, will you?" He sits, and feels Steve's thin fingers comb through his hair, gather it up and twist it into a knot, secured by the elastic.

"I should just get it cut off," he grumbles. 

"I like it long," Steve says. "It's different."

"Just what I need. To be more different than I already am."

Steve huffs. "You know what I mean," and then starts coughing. "Shit." He falls back against the pillows, defeated. "Where are you going?"

"Meeting Coulson at the warehouse." The lie is glib, logical, and Steve nods, apparently believing him. 

"Okay. Don't worry about me, I'm okay."

"I'll call Darcy and have her send over some matzoh ball soup."

Steve groans. "I can't take Darcy right now. Pick some up on the way home?"

"Sure." He feels guilty, but he just kisses Steve's forehead. "The aspirin is working. Temps down. Stay in bed," he admonishes.

"I'm twenty-five Bucky, not five. If I want to go downstairs, I will."

"You're kind of cranky when you're sick." Bucky teases, then gives him another quick kiss. "Later." He goes downstairs and listens. Silence. _I'll be back soon,_ he promises, and prays that it's one promise he won't break.

^*^*^*^*^*^*^

He tries to talk himself out of this, but honestly, he can't think that Pierce would have the balls to attack him in a fairly public place. Have him thrown out on the street with a price on his head, sure. But he's not afraid for his life just yet.

He takes the subway to Manhattan and exits on 5th Avenue. The glass and steel skyscrapers dwarf everything below the clouds. Still, he lives in the world below with people and the wet pavement and the snow. He goes into a coffee shop across the street from Pierce's office tower. The girl behind the counter looks frazzled. Bucky leans on the counter and gives her his most charming smile. She nearly drops the latte she's just poured. 

"H-Hi," she stammers. "I'll be right with you." 

"No worries. I'll wait." He lounges against the counter while she fills a large order for an impatient woman in a business suit. Bucky appraises her. The suit is attractive, but definitely off the rack, her blouse is polyester, not silk. Her shoes are slightly scuffed. So, not an executive, probably a lowly admin or secretary. She has a badge on a lanyard around her neck. It looks like Pierce's insignia. 

She's too busy juggling the tray to notice when Bucky stumbles into her, his quick fingers releasing the clasp on the lanyard. He shoves it in his pocket just as she rounds on him. 

"Watch where you're going, asshole." Her voice is pure Bronx, as is her attitude. 

The woman blushes a fiery red. "God, I'm so sorry. Look, I'm having a shitty day and I've got to get this order to a meeting." She turns to the barista. "Charge it to Pierce's account. Oh, add his order to the total." She smiles at Bucky. "It's the least I can do."

 

He feels like a real shit, but he orders a black coffee and sits at a table by the window for five minutes before he nods to the barista and leaves. He puts his hood up over his head and crosses the street. He steps inside the gleaming lobby — all cold marble and glass — not a hint of color or warmth. He waits until the receptionist is busy flirting with, a well-dressed man who looks like an updated Don Draper. 

Bucky moves quickly to the elevators and gets on the first one that arrives. Three people get off and he slips inside, pushing the button to the highest floor indicated. When two women try to board the elevator, Bucky gives them a cold glare and they back off. He steps off the elevator one floor below the highest level and finds the exit stairs.

He goes up to the next level and opens the door. He's standing in front of another bank of elevators, but instead of call buttons, they have magnetic card readers. He swipes the card and one of the cabs opens. He enters and pushes the penthouse floor. He's pretty sure that an ego the size of Pierce's would have the penthouse for his office. The doors slide open silently. He's in a lobby with marble floors, the black and white broken by jewel-toned oriental rugs and vivid paintings. He can't say he's crazy about the artwork. He prefers Steve's, hard-edged and stark in comparison. 

Behind glass doors, another chilly receptionist is sitting at a glass and marble desk. She's wearing a red, sleeveless dress and she looks cold. Bucky tests the door. Of course, it's locked. He waits, knowing that his jeans, scarred leather jacket and boots aren't the usual attire seen on this floor. The receptionist presses a button on a console. 

"The construction is one floor down, sir," she says.

"I'm not one of the crew. I'm here to see Mr. Pierce."

"Mr. Pierce is not available." She raises her nose, as if she can smell his sweat. Bucky wants to tell her he showered so she can take her snooty attitude and stick it where the sun don't shine, then immediately feels guilty. He doesn't know her and she's probably thankful she has a job even it's working for a man like Pierce. 

"Tell him James Barnes is here to see him." 

"Do you have an appointment?"

"No. But he'll make time for me." 

She looks confused, which makes her seem more human and less like an android. "Excuse me?"

Bucky sighs. "I wouldn't have gotten this far if Mr. Pierce didn't know who I am. Just tell him."

"James Barnes?"

"Yes. It's not that hard." He tries to give her a charming smile. She's not buying it. He watches as she pushes another button and the lock on the door disengages. Bucky opens it and steps inside the inner sanctum. "Thank you. Now tell Pierce I want to see him."

Her eyes widen when she takes in the empty sleeve. She picks up the phone. "Mr. Pierce, Mr. James Barnes is here to see you." She nods. "Of course, sir." She looks at Bucky. "Wait here, Mr. Barnes." She inclines her head towards a white leather couch.

Bucky moves away from the desk, but remains standing. Outside, the snow is starting to swirl around. He feels like he's inside a snow globe. He hears footsteps and turns. He finds himself facing the saturnine features of Brock Rumlow. 

He's hard pressed not to punch Rumlow in his smug face. "Mr. Rumlow. I'd say it's a pleasure, but I hate to lie for no good reason."

"Why are you here?" Rumlow grinds out. "Death wish?"

"I came here to talk to Pierce, not his lackey."

Rumlow's lips whiten with anger. "You have to go through me to get to him."

"This isn't the gunfight at the OK Corral. I'm unarmed. Literally. You're welcome to do a search, but I'm not lying." His voice gets grim and dark. "I came to see Pierce, not you. And whether or not he wants to see me is his decision, not yours."

The secretary has been watching them, her eyes wide and her hand poised over her phone. Rumlow frowns at her and shakes his head. "You have five minutes before security _escorts_ you out." This is accompanied by a sneer that clearly implies that being escorted out might end up with broken ribs or worse. Still, it's a victory, of sorts, Bucky supposes. Rumlow can look as murderous as he likes; Bucky figures nobody's going to spill his red blood over Pierce's fine white marble floors. It would be a chickenshit move to murder a one-armed, combat decorated, purple heart veteran in cold blood. He's fairly certain about that. Maybe. 

Rumlow steps over to the secretary's console. "Sir, James Barnes is here to see you." He sounds like the words are grated glass. He glowers at Bucky. "Mr. Pierce will see you."

"Alone."

"He wants to see you alone," Rumlow adds and nods. "Yes, sir."

"Go down that hall. The office doors are on the right." 

Bucky nods and starts walking, feeling Rumlow staring knife blades at his spine. He suppresses a shiver and keeps going until he reaches a set of etched glass French doors. They open soundlessly. Bucky steps inside. 

Unlike the sterile hard outer office, Pierce's inner sanctum is floored with pale wood punctuated by deep ruby-hued oriental rugs. The white walls display paintings in brilliant colors and patterns. Bucky recognizes an artist whose works are in the MOMA. There is a conspicuous empty place on one wall — which you could ignore in favor of the stunning view of the city along the back wall. The desk is glass, marble and steel. The only thing on the surface is a sleek tablet computer. 

Pierce is wearing an impeccable silvery-gray suit, a white shirt and a silver tie with narrow gold stripes. He's a tiger at home in his habitat. Bucky, however, has been trained to blend into any milieu, and to be deadly in all of them. 

Pierce goes opens up a panel in the wall, revealing a bar. "Can I offer you a drink?"

Bucky nearly laughs. "It's 10am, Pierce. If you're drinking now, you've got bigger problems than trying to hide your criminal activities from the police."

"I was going to offer coffee."

"Don't pretend to offer me hospitality, Pierce."

"Why are you here?" 

"It's simple, really. Stay away from Steve Rogers and pay back the gallery owners Rumlow scammed. If you don't, you'll spend the rest of your life looking over your shoulder."

"I'm not afraid of you, Barnes."

"You should be." 

Bucky takes two steps towards Pierce. He barely manages to disguise a flinch, but recovers quickly. He looks down his damn perfect nose at Bucky. "You're nothing but a one-armed, broken down vet who earns his living in a low rent coffee shop? I'm trembling in my shoes." Pierce sneers.

"You should be. I got all the way up here, found my way to your inner sanctum, and nobody, not even Rumlow stopped me. Think about that, Pierce. Think about what I'm asking and about what I know." Bucky backs out of the office, then walks down the hall without looking back.

"I'm done," he tells Rumlow. He strides away, steps into a waiting elevator, and vanishes. On his way out, he drops the employee ID by the reception desk and hails a cab to take him to the warehouse.

^*^*^*^*^*^*^

Somewhere, between Pierce's office and the ride to the warehouse, Bucky loses himself. It hasn't happened for a while, but he can't stop shaking, can't stop seeing blood and body parts, can't stop hearing gunfire and chaos. He doesn't realize it until he finds himself blinking into Coulson's kind, concerned eyes. He's not in the cab. He's on the floor, Coulson's coat covering him, and heat pack tucked close to his body. His head is throbbing.

"W-what happened?" Then realizing that he _knows_ what happened. "Shit. Never mind. The cabbie?"

"He's fine. Well-tipped. No harm done."

Bucky winces and runs his fingers through his tangled hair. "Have you found anything?"  


"More than you can imagine," Phil's eyes glint. "Stolen paintings. Cash. Apparently our friends were also shaking down jewelers. Five million dollars worth of uncut diamonds. Computers."

"Why would he try to kill me, why steal Steve's paintings? There's got to be more. Could Steve have seen something that would have tipped him off?"

"Has he said anything?"

"No. He doesn't talk about it at all."

"I know somebody who might be able to help," Phil said, "Can you talk Steve into letting her try to get him to remember?"

"No promises," Bucky sighed. "Steve has a mind of his own. I don't know if he'll do it."

"Try. This may be our last chance to stop Pierce." 

"You don't think this is all that Pierce is about," Bucky says and gets a shrewd look from Phil. 

"I think this is bling to distract us." Phil's brows draw level. "So, do you want to tell me where you were?"

"Throwing some of my own bling in Pierce's eyes. I wanted to distract him from Steve. Make him think I was the real danger." He gives a weak laugh. "I think I may have succeeded." He holds out his hand to Phil. "A little help?"

Phil pulls him to his feet. "You should go home."

Bucky shakes his head. "Thanks, but I need to see Stark first."

"Stark?" Phil raises a brow, but the doesn't say anything. "I'll get a ride for you. I don't think public transportation is your best option at this point."

Bucky can't say that he's wrong. "Thanks." He shrugs deeper into his jacket; feeling cold and weary beyond belief. The unmarked sedan that Phil orders for him is older and the seats have seen better days, but the heater is blasting warm air and the driver is remarkably not chatty, which is a big plus for Bucky right now. He closes his eyes and tries to relax. The ride to Stark's is too short for him to drift off, but just shutting out the world eases some of the jagged edges of his panic attack that still linger.

The driver lets him off in front of Stark Tower and Bucky to his surprise he's greeted by Colonel Rhodes at the reception desk. "How did you know I was coming?"

"Phil Coulson called."

"Of course he did," Bucky sighs, but he's grateful for the reception. He's still not sure if he can walk right past the reception desk to the elevators, despite the entry code Tony had given him while he and Steve were staying in the tower. 

"So, what brings you here?" Rhodey asks. 

"A little matter of the arm."

"You _do_ know that this isn't something that can be accomplished in a day, right?"

Bucky's mouth tightens. "I know." But he had hoped, and he wishes Rhodes had just kept quiet about how impossible it would be to accomplish. He won't lose hope entirely until he talks to Tony and Dr. Cho. He wants to know if there is anything he can do to speed things along.

They get off on Tony's lab floor. "I'll leave you here. You know the way to the lab?"

"Yeah." 

"Good luck, man."

"Thanks." Bucky shakes Rhodey's hand and continues down the corridor. When he pushes the lab door open, Dr. Cho looks up from her microscope. "Ah, James. What can we do for you?"

"I need that arm." He's blunt, but he doesn't know how else to frame it.

"You know how complicated this is," she says evenly. 

"How close are we to a working prototype?"

"Let's go to talk to Tony," she sighs. They cross the hall to the workroom. Tony is standing by a work table, welding plates of some sort of metal to what looks like a skeletal arm. He looks up when the door opens. 

"Ah, Barnes. Just the person I was going to text. What do you think?" 

"Looks like it will be weeks, not days before it's ready."

"Okay, you do understand that this isn't your run of the mill prosthetic? This isn't something that fits over your stump and opens and closes with a muscle twitch. If you want something like that, go to the VA and ask for your old prosthetic back."

Bucky runs a frustrated hand through this hair. "I'm not that stupid, but … " He looks at Cho. "Can I talk to Tony alone?"

"Of course." She touches his arm gently before she leaves and the door slides closed behind her.

Tony strips off his gloves and goggles and goes to the refrigerator. "Drink?"

"Yeah, water would be great."

Tony takes out a bottle of water and a bottle of whiskey. "No, don't argue with me, Barnes. You're wound up like piano wire. You aren't driving, so you can't tell me you're the designated driver." He pours a finger of whiskey into a glass, adds some water and passes the bottle of water to Bucky. "Sit, we'll talk." He sets the glass down within reach and sits across from Bucky.

"Why the urgency?"

"Because Pierce and Rumlow are trying to kill Steve and I have to protect him." 

"Even if this arm were ready, it won't turn you into some sort of superhero. You get that, right?"

"It will put me on a level playing field. I can take care of the rest."

Tony sighs and scrubs a hand over his face. "This is how you get into trouble. I read your military records … _All_ of them. You have a fistful of medals for valor, including a letter nominating you for the Congressional Medal of Honor, which you turned down. I'm not a psychologist, thank God, because then I'd have to have therapy sessions with myself …" 

Bucky can't help laughing. "You're such an asshole, Stark."

"Yeah, not the first time I've heard that. But back to you. If I were a therapist, I'd say you suffer from a delusion that you have to take care of everything and everybody you care about, because that one time in A-stan when you somehow _missed_ a very well hidden IED that destroyed half of the convoy while the rest were ambushed by the Taliban, people died."

"Stop!" Bucky wants to scream, but he only manages a hoarse, angry whisper. He falls to his knees and Tony wraps him in his arms and holds him while Bucky weeps and clings to him. Finally his sobs wear down to hiccups and he pulls away wiping his mouth and nose on his sleeve. "Sorry," he whispers.

"Does this mean you're my BFF, because … no. Just no." He holds the glass of whiskey out to Bucky. "Here. This will help."

Bucky sips and hauls himself upright. "I've got to get home. Steve …"  


"I'm sure Coulson has him locked up tight." He takes a swallow of his own drink. "Give me two days and I'll have something for you. It won't be the fully integrated system I was going for, but it will give you a functioning arm."

Bucky wipes his eyes again, downs his whiskey and stands up. "Sorry for wiping snot on you."

Tony looks down at his stained shirt. "Not the worst thing I've gotten on it." He speaks, "Jarvis, Mr. Barnes will need a ride home."

"Very good, sir."

"Thanks, Tony." Bucky holds out his hand and Tony grips it. 

"It's not your fault, Barnes. None of it. Someday, you'll figure that out."

"Yeah." _When the ghosts stop haunting his nights._ "Call me when it's ready." The elevator slides open and Bucky steps inside. He closes his eyes and waits for the doors to close.

^*^*^*^*^*^*^  


Happy Hogan drops him off at the house, then waits until Bucky's inside. He waves Hogan off then locks the door and arms the alarm again. "Steve?"

"In here, Buck." He's sitting in front of the fireplace, a sketchpad on his drawn-up knees. He's dressed in jeans and he wearing one of Bucky's sweaters, which Bucky finds completely adorable. He takes off his coat and throws it on the chair, like he always does, and sees the little smirk of Steve's face.

"What?"

"I think even if you had two arms, you'd still throw your coat on the chair."

"Ya think?" Bucky drops down on the couch and slides his arm around Steve's shoulders. "Are you feeling better?"

"Coulson sent Clint over with cold meds. I got some rest and Clint stayed. He's a good guy. What about you, did you see Coulson?"

"Yeah. I went to see Tony. He should have a rough model of my arm in a few days."

Steve frowns up at him. "What? Why just a rough model?"

"Because I asked him for it."

Steve's jaw juts out. "You're doing this for me. You think you can protect me better with two arms."

Bucky sighs in exasperation. "You think I don't want a functional arm for my own reasons?"

"Do you?"

"I don't want to talk about it, okay? If it doesn't work, it's all a moot point. I did it. That's all."

Steve pulls his head down and kisses him fiercely, with all the strength and fervor in his body. "You're such a jerk, but I love you."

"Did you just give me your germs, punk?"

"Yeah, because if you feel as rotten as I did, you'll have to stay in bed and be safe instead of beating yourself up over not being able to save the world."

"Tony said the same thing."

"How about that, the two smartest people you know agree with each other."

Bucky stands up. "I've had enough abuse. I'm going to make some tea." 

After, they sit on the couch, Steve held close to Bucky's strong, warm body, and Bucky feeling like he's trying to hold back the walls from closing in on them. He feels justified in keeping his confrontation with Pierce to himself. Eventually, he shifts, tugging Steve down against him, and falls asleep, too exhausted to dream.

TBC


	26. Chapter 26

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve appeals to Tony for Bucky. Tony surprises Steve. And Steve surprises Tony by seeing something that everybody had missed. And there's some Steve/Bucky loving' to warm up a cold winter night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I bet you all thought I'd forgotten this story. Nope, just overwhelmed with holiday and family stuff. This is short, but I promise the next chapter will be longer. You'll have to be content with some Steve and Bucky sexy times.

Steve wakes up feeling better than he had the day before, but still achey and a bit floaty from too much cold medicine. He takes an experimental breath, and doesn't cough so that's a plus. Bucky's side of the bed is empty, but the sheets are still faintly warm and he can hear the sound of running water from the bathroom. He wonders if Bucky has changed his mind about Stark and the arm. Not that it matters to Steve one way or another. He'll love Bucky no matter what. He decides to do an end run to Stark if Bucky goes out. 

Bucky emerges from the bathroom with a towel wrapped around his hips and dripping hair. He's trying to mop the water from his hair and looks frustrated. Steve sits up. "Give me the towel and sit down."

Bucky sighs and sits on the edge of the bed while Steve towels his hair dry, combing it with his fingers as he finishes. "That better?"

Bucky nods, "Thank you."

"What else is a boyfriend for?" Steve asks and Bucky turns and presses him down against the pillows. 

"I can think of one or two things."

"Hold that thought," Steve smiles. "At least until I can breathe without being stuffed to the gills with antihistamines."

"You're okay?" His hand is warm on Steve's forehead. 

"Yes! I'm fine. Just overmedicated and hungry. So if one or those things a boyfriend is good for is breakfast …"

"You just love me because I cook for you."

Steve's voice softens. "Among other reasons … so many other reasons," he sighs. "But for now, breakfast sounds really, really good."

"What would you like?"

"Surprise me."

Bucky raises his brow and drops the towel. Steve groans. "That is so not fair." He can't look away. Bucky's body is beautiful, his skin, except for where the scars mar his left side is pale and muscled. His waist is narrow and the oblique muscles slide easily as he turns, his cock lies heavy on his thighs and Steve licks his lips. "I might have to re-think breakfast."

Bucky laughs and leans over to kiss him. Steve, being a little shit, runs his fingers down the length of Bucky's cock and reaches to tug Bucky down. 

"I thought you couldn't breathe?"

"I can't, but that won't stop me from this … " He starts a slow, rhythmic pumping and feels Bucky grow hard in his fist. Steve gives him a small shove and he lies back and lets Steve bring him to arousal with his talented, beautiful fingers. 

Bucky sighs and shivers. "Stevie … "

"Shh. I've got you." He paints his fingers with Bucky's pre-cum and slicks up his hole, delving his fingers in gently. His hands are small, long-fingered, and he can breach Bucky easily, finding his prostate and massaging it until Bucky arches and semen spurts over his stomach and Steve's chest. Steve touches Bucky's semen to his tongue and surges up to kiss Bucky, wanting him to taste himself as Steve tastes him. He smiles up into Bucky's hooded eyes. 

"I was gonna take a shower anyhow."

Bucky sighs and kisses Steve. "I'll hold you up." 

"You always do." Steve says tenderly. "But then you're making me breakfast."

^*^*^*^*^*^*^

Coulson texts Bucky as he finishes his French toast and bacon. Steve looks up as Bucky taps a reply and sends it. "What's going on?"

"Tony hacked into Pierce's files. He found something."

"What?"

"That's why he wants to meet me at the warehouse." Bucky drinks down his coffee. "See you later, babe."

"You're sure it was Coulson?"

"I'll make sure of it." He taps in a number, not a text. "Tony? I just got a text from Coulson. He says you found something."

"Yeah. Do you need to talk to him?"

"Please." Bucky looks at Steve and nods. "So we're meeting at the warehouse?" He listens for a moment. "Got it." He thumbs off. "See, all legit. Tony's sending Happy to pick me up."

Steve takes a breath and steels himself. "Buck, I'm going to go with you."

"No. Not to that warehouse. It's too cold and you'll just get sick again."

"Not to the warehouse, but maybe to Tony's? I'm going nuts here inside these walls. I'll be fine. Pepper will feed me chicken soup and watch old movies with me," he wheedles. "And you won't have to worry about me being alone."

Bucky's eyes narrow, looking for some subterfuge, but he finally relents. "You're right. Knowing you're safe will help me concentrate. Meanwhile, Phil wants you to talk to Bruce, see if you can't sort through your memories of the warehouse. You must have seen something —" 

"I didn't!" Steve insists. "Don't you think I would have told you?"

"It might be something insignificant to you, but maybe Bruce can walk you through it and help you remember."

Steve scratches the back of his neck. "Sure, I'll do it, but don't expect any revelations."

^*^*^*^*^*^

Hap drops Bucky off at the warehouse where Coulson is waiting, then drives Steve over to Stark Tower, where Pepper greets him with a hug. Steve stiffens and backs off, and Pepper looks guilty. He promptly feels like a shit for that. "Sorry, it's just that I've got this cold and that's something I don't want to share with my friends."

In an instant Pepper's hand is on his forehead. "Are you all right?"

"Better than yesterday. Really, I'm fine." He lets her lead him into the common room. She frowns at him and he can practically see her worry and kindness as she tries to figure out how to take care of him. "Would you like some tea?"

He really doesn't, but she looks so concerned that he agrees just to put Pepper at ease, because she's such a 'fixer' and she'll keep on trying to make him better until either he or the germs surrender. "Thank you. Do you have something herbal?"

"Peppermint?"

"Thank you," Steve smiles up at her from the couch where he's settled. "That would be perfect." He doesn't particularly care for mint tea, but it can't hurt. 

"Great. Thanks." He slouches lower on the couch. It's hard not to be comfortable in Tony's lavish and cozy room. Pepper brings him tea and perches on the edge of the sofa. "How is Bucky?"

"Well, he doesn't have a cold, yet." 

She fidgets. "Tony is worried."

" _I'm_ " worried," Steve admits. "But Bucky has that whole hero thing going on even though I don't need it."

"He and Tony have that in common," she sighs. 

Steve doesn't want to remind her that she is like that as well. Fierce, protective, and defiant in the face of danger. How on earth had he fallen in with these people? Sure, he's had his share of scrapes and he's never been one to back down from bullies, but it's not like he's particularly _heroic_. 

Pepper's phone rings and she answers it. "I'm with somebody right now. Can't this wait?"

Steve motions for her to stop and mouths, "I'll be fine. Go."

"I'll be there." Pepper taps her phone. "Are you sure?"

"Yes! Go be Tony's CEO. I'm fine. I have tea, I have the TV. I have JARVIS." 

Pepper leaves with a glance over her shoulder and Steve waggles the TV remote, deliberately turns his back and asks JARVIS to cue the History Channel. He watches a documentary on the Depression long enough to allow for Pepper to become involved in her job and not in worrying about him. Then he asks JARVIS to tell Tony he's on his way to the lab.

Tony is throwing holographic 3-D renderings of a building when Steve enters. Tony looks up. "Pepper said you should be home in bed."

"I'm fine. Pepper worries too much. If I can't be with Bucky and Coulson, I might as well be here with you and Bruce. Bucky thinks he might help me remember something." He squints at the holograms, which look vaguely familiar. "Is that the warehouse?"

"Yes. Updated with the information Coulson and Bucky provided. See anything interesting?" Tony's eyes are sharp and Steve feels uncomfortable and queasy. "W-where did they have me?"

Tony taps and a room appears with dimensions. Steve looks at it. He tilts his head. "Does this show the original walls?"

"Original?"

"Yeah. The walls were newer construction than the rest of the building. "Here, look at the walls of the next room. They look kind of off-kilter, don't they?"

Tony does some fancy manipulations that expand the walls of the room Steve was in. "You're right. I was wondering why my calculations seemed off. You've got a good eye, Rogers."

"Lucky me." He sits on a vacant counter. "That's not why I'm here, though."

"Let me send this off to Coulson. Then we'll talk." It only takes a minute for Tony to send the revised schematics, then he goes to the mini-bar and retrieves two bottles of water. "I have orange juice," he tells Steve.

"Water is fine, thanks." He cracks the seal and takes a deep swallow. "I'm here about Bucky."

Tony gives him an assessing look. "Ah, the arm?"

"I don't want you to rush through this just because Bucky has some weird hang-up about protecting me."

"Not so weird. Don't you think I'd be the same way for Pepper?"

"I don't want him to mess up his arm with some temporary fix."

"Have a little faith, Steve. I wouldn't consider it if I couldn't figure it out. Let me show you something." He comes back carrying something in his arms like a bundled baby. He sets it on an empty work table and unwraps it. Steve blinks. It looks like an arm, but instead of having a flesh overskin, it's some sort of alloy; silver, shiny and sleek. The fingers are incredibly articulated, and the silver shoulder cap looks like the rounded bicep of a well-conditioned athlete. 

"It's not what I expected," Steve breathes. "It looks like art. I thought it would be primitive, skeletal — I don't know what I thought."

"Thank you." Tony looks pleased. "I'm hoping to add a cup that will have electronic circuits that act like nerves and will fit over his stump without straps. Right now, he'll have to wear a harness to hold it securely, and the function will be somewhat less. For instance, he'll be able to move his fingers, but not feel with them. He won't have a complete range of motion. He'll be able to raise it, swing it from side to side, maneuver it to put on a shirt or jacket, but he won't be pitching any fastballs or ballroom dancing."

Steve laughs, "Neither of which are in his wheelhouse."

Starks lips quirk. "When I'm finished, they could be."

"Great, I'll call the Mets and Dancing With the Stars." 

Tony laughs. "I like you, Rogers. Tell your boyfriend that he can come in and try out the arm later today."

"He'll be here later, once he and Coulson go through through that warehouse with a fine-toothed comb. I still can't believe you have that prosthetic on such short notice. That's amazing."

Tony shrugs. "I've been working with DARPA and the DoD on prosthetics, so it's not like I was starting from scratch."

"It means a lot to Bucky, and I understand that he wants to feel normal, but I don't want it to be at the expense of his health and peace of mind. He's been through so much."

"Believe me, we won't proceed if it's going to cost him either of those. Trust me, Steve."

"I do." He seems to collapse into the sofa, and Tony sits on counter across from him. "You should let Pepper, or at least JARVIS take care of you."

"I don't want to impose —"

Tony waves him off with a hand. "JARVIS, do we have some chicken soup in the main kitchen?"

"Yes, sir. Rice, noodles or matzoh ball?" 

"Matzoh ball," Steve says promptly, and when Tony looks surprised. he shrugs. "My neighbor in Brooklyn made me soup when I was fighting off some bug or another. I don't know if it cured anything, but my mom said at least I was eating."

Tony swipes across his display and the images vanish. "Want some company?" 

As if Steve would, or could, say no. Instead, he thinks he'll be glad for the company. He needs a distraction from worrying about what Bucky and Coulson are finding at the warehouse.

**TBC**


	27. Chapter 27

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bucky and Coulson make a shocking discovery. Tony is a good friend, and Dr. Cage is frustrated. Steve insists he doesn't need protecting, but Bucky isn't buying that old song and dance.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally, a longer chapter. I am not a scientist or a doctor so any technical or medical errors are my own and Google's. :-)
> 
> No heroes were permanently harmed in the writing of this chapter. I think the end of the story is in sight. Three, maybe four chapters, and then, finally I'll be able to type _The End_. Don't hold me to that.

Bucky is sitting in the fire-gutted room where he found Steve. The remains of Steve's canvases wave faintly in the cold draughts coming through the high windows; it's late and the dark is coming. Bucky had never been afraid of the dark, not even as a child. In the army, it had been a sniper's best friend; until he had been captured.

Ten days in the fucking dark. Ten days of being blind, smelling his own blood, the growing infection in his arm, the rank odor of his body. There were things he never told anybody after he'd been rescued. He told them he didn't remember anything until he woke up in the military hospital at Landstuhl. He was a damn good liar. The army had taught him that, too. Sam knew. The medics knew. That was it. Most of the horrors had faded, at least in his waking hours. 

At night, that was different. The hospital had been okay because it was never dark or quiet. Being on the streets, that had been bad. He'd seen things in the shadows, thought he was about to lose his mind. Then Natasha had happened but he still slept with a nightlight on like a five-year old. 

Dark was bad. Dark and cold, that was — His thoughts are interrupted when Phil Coulson lays a blanket over his shoulders and forces a steaming cup of tea into his gloved hand. "Steve remembered something."

"What?"

"These walls are false. He noticed that every other wall is brick and concrete, this isn't. It's wallboard and plaster."

"So? They built it to divide the space," Bucky says. "How does that help?"

"Or they built it to create a space … " Coulson hefts a sledgehammer. "You want to take a swing at it?"

Bucky's exhaustion vanishes. He grins at Coulson. "I can give you a hand."

Coulson's mouth twitches. "I can see I'll have to keep you away from Clint. The two of you are lethal."

Bucky takes the hammer and swings hard. The wall crumbles. In two minutes, he's opened a hole big enough for a man to walk through. He sets down the hammer and wipes sweat from his forehead. "At least I'm not cold anymore."

Coulson peers into the hole. "Well, this is new." 

Bucky stands next to him. "Stairwell? Why wasn't this on the building specs?"

"Because the specs were altered," Coulson replies tersely. "Want to see where this goes?"

"Hell, yeah." Bucky ducks inside, brushing away cobwebs. "Looks like nobody's used this in a long time."

"Look again." Coulson shines his flashlight on the steps. "Notice anything?"

Bucky does. "The steps are clean." He doesn't like the tight quarters and the way the walls are too close to his body. "Okay, let's do this," he says and it sounds like he's preparing to go into battle. 

Coulson goes first with the flashlight so Bucky can use the wall for balance. They go down, but there is no exit on the next floor, no exit on the floor below that, no exit on the main floor. They keep going. "How deep does this go?" Bucky whispers. He's not sure why. The walls have gone from brick to stone. The stones glisten with water in some places. "We must be below the level of the river."

"I think you're right." He plays the beam of the light down the stairs. "It looks like they end after this turn."

Bucky feels his chest tighten and tells himself it's only claustrophobia, and he's fought through this before. He focuses on the feel of the rough, damp stones beneath his fingers. He can hear Coulson's soft footsteps and his breath, a little rough with anticipation. They're standing by the door. It's not new and the old steel is rusting in spots. It smells like old blood.

"Coulson?" Bucky brushes aside a layer of dust. "Of all the places not to clean," he mutters. "What —" He stops as more of the paint is revealed. A yellow and black wheel, nearly obliterated by rust. "What —?"

"It's an old fallout shelter. People built them in the fifties and sixties to be safe from a nuclear attack by the Soviets. It must seem pretty ludicrous to you."

Bucky grimaces. "I had a teacher who said they told her that if there was a bomb, they should hide under their desks and cover their eyes."

"I lived in Illinois for a while. The house had a fallout shelter. By then, people were using it as a storm shelter. A tornado was lot more likely in the Midwest than Kruschev dropping a bomb."

Bucky tries the knob. "Locked."

Coulson digs in his pocket and pulls out a set of picks. The lock is original, and he expects it to give him trouble, but the tumblers click easily, like they've been recently oiled. Not good, he thinks.

Behind him, Bucky's eyes widen, but he nods. "I'm ready." He braces physically, as if he expects an impact. Coulson opens the door on silent hinges. The room is in complete darkness save for small red bulb overhead, probably installed in case the power went out while people were working down there. 

Coulson shines his flashlight around the doorframe and finds a switch. He turns it on. Bucky steps inside. Long steel tables are set up in 5 rows. One has a computer terminal on it and Coulson powers it up. The monitor comes on, but the screen has the notorious blue screen of death display. Phil shakes his head. "The hard drive has been removed or compromised. I'll have the lab techs bring it to Stark." 

Bucky paces slowly around the room. There is a door at the back wall. He tries the handle and to his surprise it turns. He opens the door slowly. "Flashlight?"

Phil tosses it, a reflex action that his brain process a second too late as he remembers Bucky's missing arm. Bucky, in an equally instinctive reaction, still catches it easily one-handed. His teeth gleam in his smile. "Don't apologize," he warns, and Phil shuts his mouth before the words, slip out. "What is it?"

Bucky turns to him, his face gone blank and pale. "We have to get out of here."

"What is it?" Coulson takes a step, and Bucky warns him off. "You know that symbol on the door? It's all over the containers in here."

Phil ignores Bucky's warning and looks inside. At least ten small boxes are stacked on shelves, all with the yellow and black symbol for radioactive materials. They're new, shiny, not cold war era, but there is a reason why they've been stored in a fallout shelter and that's screaming DANGER to him right now.

"Let's go."

"Why is it here?" Bucky asks.

"For no good reason. I hope those boxes are lead-lined. I can't risk exposure for either of us. If it's radioactive, this whole facility could be contaminated."

Bucky thinks of Steve, of all the workers who have been here. "If it is, we're fucked." He and Coulson beat a retreat up the stairwell, back to the room. Coulson takes out his cell phone. 

"We need to evacuate NOW! Everybody. Get a hazmat team here geared for possible radiation contamination. We're on our way out."

They flee the building along with the construction crews, the CSU techs, and the police. Ten minutes later, they're being swept with Geiger counters. "Well?" Bucky asks the tech as he hears the ticking of the counter. 

"How long were you in there?"

"Over the course of the last week? Maybe twenty hours."

"Hmm …" The tech says. "The hazmat folks will have a better idea of the amount of radiation in the general atmosphere. How long were you in today?"

"Maybe two hours. In the old fallout shelter, less than an hour."

The tech doesn't look happy. "You'll have to go through decontamination, and from there to the hospital for treatment."

"How bad is it?" Bucky asks. 

"It's an elevated level, but manageable with treatment."

He looks over at Coulson, receiving the same check-up that he is. Coulson seems as unflappable as ever. But he senses Bucky watching him and shrugs with a half-smile that might as well be an apology. 

"What about the others? The construction crews and security?"

"Very low levels consistent with getting a dental x-ray. They're receiving instructions and being sent home."

"Can you send somebody over to check my friend who was here? Steve Rogers?"

Coulson breaks in, "I've asked Tony to have JARVIS run a discreet scan."

Bucky sighs in relief. He wasn't looking forward Steve finding out about the radiation. "Thanks." 

He's led to a decontamination shower in one of the hazmat trucks where he's stripped of his clothes, given a scrub suit to wear and wrapped in a blanket. He loses a little time there, between the shower and the cold. Coulson is with him, close and sitting to Bucky's left, his shoulder pressed against Bucky's stump, his thigh comfortingly warm. It grounds Bucky, keeps him from going into a full panic episode; but he doesn't remember much else about the drive to the hospital. 

He is put in a cubicle and hooked up to IVs. Bucky looks at the bag the nurse is hanging on the pole."

"What is that?"

"DPTA. It binds the radioactive material in the body so it can be eliminated from the body in the usual way. Oh, here are your doctors. I'll get you some water. You'll need to drink quite a lott for the next few days."

Luke Cage comes into the cubicle, followed by another doctor. He crosses his arms and glares at Bucky. "You. Again." It sounds like an accusation. "I'm startin' to think you're stalkin' me."

"Sorry, doc. It's not like I plan these things." Bucky tries to look contrite, but fails. "Nice to see you, too."

Cage is reading his chart. "Radiation exposure? Are you kidding me?"

"Shit happens." 

"Seems like you've had more than your share." He turns to the other doctor. "This is Dr. Yanick from the CDC. He's evaluated yours and Mr. Coulson's condition. I'll let him fill you in."

"So, what's happens next?"

Dr. Yanik smiles. "You finish the IV and go home. You and Mr. Coulson will return in two days to have your blood checked. If necessary, you'll get another dose. However, I believe, based on your time of exposure and amount of radiation that you will be fine. You were fortunate."

"And Coulson?"

"Without going into specifics, I believe he will be fine as well."

"I'd like to make a call."

"I won't stop you," Yanik smiles. "The IV will be finished in a hour."

Bucky reaches for the bedside phone and dials Tony's mobile. He answers with a cheery, "Hey, Barnes. Wait till you see what I've got for you."

Bucky can't think about that right now. One thing at a time. That's Sam's advice when things start slipping sideways. He takes a breath.How's Steve?" he asks. 

"Fine. Pepper has been mother-henning him all day … well, between video conferences. We thought you'd be back by now."

Bucky shifts in the bed. "Well, there was a complication. Could you send Hogan here with a change of clothes for me? Sweats will be fine."

"Sure. Are you at the warehouse?"

"No. I'm in the ER at St. Vincent's."

There is a pause. "You're joking, right?"

"Phil and I are hooked up to IVs. Radiation exposure."

"Shit. Are you alright?"

"Yeah. One dose of some chemical and we'll be fine. I've got about an hour to go."

"What about Coulson?" 

"The same. I think he's calling Clint. I just want to get out of here. But do me a favor and don't tell Steve. Let him think I fell in the river or something."

"The river might be more toxic," Tony jokes, but he can't keep the worry out of his voice. "Is there anything else I can do?"

"Keep Steve safe."

"Got that. You know, he takes better care of himself than you do of yourself."

"What?"

"You know, it wouldn't be the end of the world if you let this one go. One thing my father taught me that I believe in, is the cost/benefit ratio. It seems to me the cost vs. the benefit on this is way out of kilter."

Bucky thinks about the stack of containers in the fallout shelter; of what Pierce could be up to, and he feels sick. "I'm fine, Tony. Just send me clothes and a ride. I'll fill you in when I get there."

An hour later, the IV is out and Hogan appears with jeans, an incredibly soft blue sweater, a white t-shirt, and everything else, including sneakers in Bucky's size. All new, all the best. Leave it to Stark. Bucky dresses and Happy holds out a down-filled parka. The warmth feels wonderful. He's acutely aware that the clothes probably cost more than his wardrobe budget for two years, but that's Stark for you. He can't help it … he needs to fix things. 

It's a short ride to the tower, despite traffic. He steps out on the penthouse level with it's soft furniture and warming fireplace, and just wants to collapse on Tony's couches and sleep for a week — no, a _month_. Steve is curled into the corner of the sofa, knees drawn up and a sketchpad on his lap. A pencil is between his teeth as he draws with a charcoal. Bucky smiles, his muscles unclenching as he looks at his lover. Safe. For a moment he thinks about what Tony had said. _It wouldn't be the end of the world if you let this one go._ It's a huge temptation. Then he thinks of the people who don't have a Tony Stark for a friend, whose lives are day-to-day, shuffling kids to work, doing their best nine to five; and the people, like him, who are on the streets, struggling just to survive. He can't do it. He can't walk away and let this go.

Steve looks up, his brow furrowed, like he's just waking up. "Hey, what happened?"

Bucky sticks to his own lie. "Went exploring and wound up nearly chest deep in the East River. I'm fine."

Steve isn't buying his bullshit. "Really?"

"I went to the hospital, had a tetanus shot, a lovely decontamination shower, and antibiotics. Tony sent over clothes. That's it." He flops down on the couch next to Steve. and closes his eyes. 

Steve cards his fingers through Bucky's hair. "You look exhausted."

"A little," he admits. "This helps." He kisses Steve's fingers. "What are you drawing?"

He shows Bucky the sketch. "Flowers?" It doesn't seem like Steve's usual thing. 

"For Pepper. I mean, she's with Tony who has a greenhouse full of roses and orchids, so giving her flowers is kind of redundant. But I thought a drawing will last longer than any bouquet."

Bucky leans in and kisses him. "That's just one reason I love you."

Steve bumps shoulders. "You mean there's more?" He looks happy, bright-eyed, and Bucky feels like a shit for lying to him about what happened. 

"Always."

He's about to 'fess up when Tony barges in. "Barnes, just the man I was looking for." He rubs his hands together. "So, are you ready to be armed?"

Bucky rolls his eyes. "Show me what you got."

Before he can gather his strength to stand, Pepper intervenes. "Tony, can it wait until after dinner, please? James looks exhausted."

"I'm fine," he protests.

Tony looks at him and must see the tiredness in his eyes. "No, Pepper's right. You need to be well rested for the fitting. Tomorrow's better for both of us." He wanders over to the bar and takes out two chunky crystal glasses. Would you like a drink?"

Bucky, uncertain about mixing alcohol with the chemicals from the IV shakes his head. "Just water."

He's starting to relax again when JARVIS announces, _Your guests are here, Mr. Stark._

Bucky startles upright. Tony's guests could be anybody from Natasha to the latest winner of the Nobel Prize for physics. "Guests?"

Tony makes a downward calming gesture with his hands. "Just Coulson and Barton."

Great. Coulson undoubtedly told Clint about the radioactive material, and worse, the hospital. He turns to Steve. "I … umm … didn't tell you everything about this afternoon." Before he can explain Phil and Clint step out of the elevator.. Phil looks like he's standing upright by the force of his will. His will is formidable, though, and he seems to rally, giving Bucky a faint smile. His sleeves are rolled, and the tape from the IV line is visible.

Steve looks from him, to Bucky. He grabs Bucky's right arm and pushes up his sleeve. "When are you going to tell me what happened today? It wasn't a fall into the East River, Buck."

Bucky sighs. "I was hoping to avoid this until after dinner." 

Clint is looking at Phil and shaking his head. Phil drinks down a glass of water and tilts his head, indicating that Tony should join them. He looks at Pepper. "I'm sorry. Can dinner wait?"

"Of course. She looks at Tony. "Do you want to speak privately?"

"For now, it might be better."

She kisses him lightly. "I'll see about dinner." She leaves and the room seems more dim without her. 

Tony puts his drink down. "So … " He waits for Clint and Phil to settle; Clint with a beer and Phil with a glass of water, which he raises in an ironic toast to Bucky. "Where should I start?"

"The beginning is good," Bucky says and sinks back against the cushions and Steve's body.

He lets Coulson relate the events of the afternoon. Bucky's so tired he can't think straight, and Steve is studying him with concern. He whispers, "Are you sure you're okay?"

"Why? Am I glowing or something?"

"Not glowing, Buck. You look burned out."

"Maybe … Just get me home and I'll be fine."

Steve interrupts Coulson's narrative. "Tony, can we have a ride home before Bucky collapses?"

"JARVIS, set up a limo to Brooklyn -- wait, hold that thought." He turns to Steve. "Stay here. You both still have clothes here and the room you had before is reserved just for instances like this."

"Buck?"

Bucky, in truth, isn't sure he'd survive a trip to Brooklyn even in one of Tony's luxury cars. Defeated and too tired to come up with an objection he nods. Steve's eyes brighten with relief. "At least I'll be here for the fitting tomorrow, bright and early."

"I'll be ready when you are," Tony says, "But don't rush on my account. Pepper would kill me for being a bad host if I didn't let you get your rest."

They're about to leave, when Phil's phone rings. "Sitwell?"

He listens gravely, punctuating the conversations with brief words. He's turned away from them, so they can't hear everything. When he finishes the conversation, he turns to them, his face grave. "I had Sitwell check the crates Pierce was using to ship canvases. He found hidden cavities in twelve of them -- cavities the right size to hold a container of radioactive material."

The implication hits hard. Bucky stand slowly. "He was selling stuff to make dirty bombs, and shipping it out?"

"So it seems."

"Arrest the bastard!" Bucky growls. "You _know_ what he's capable of doing!"

Coulson looks at him in despair. "We don't have enough proof! Yes, it's his warehouse. Yes, he was shipping so called "stolen" art, but we don't have proof of that, either. I'm a city prosecutor, not an investigator. My hands are tied, legally. I have May on the case working with Sitwell, and Natasha keeping an eye on chatter, but that's all I can do. I hate it as much as you do … more, if possible!"

"He … he kidnapped me," Steve whispers. "Isn't that a federal crime?"

"It is, but Pierce didn't grab you. Rumlow did, and he's in the wind. We haven't been able to find him!" Coulson makes a sound of frustration and sways on his feet. Clint grabs his elbow. Phil continues wearily, "We can't do anything else tonight. We have to let Sitwell investigate. He'll keep me informed. We don't know what else he'll turn up. Hopefully, it will be something big enough to bring charges." 

"And if he doesn't? I'm not going to stand by idly, Coulson. I want to bring the bastard down as hard as I can."

"Bucky," Steve objects, "You can't do that."

"Watch me." He pulls away from Steve and heads out of the room towards the elevator to the bedrooms. 

"I'm sorry, Phil," Steve sighs. "Maybe he'll see reason after he has some food and gets some rest." He follows Bucky into the bedroom. He's flat on the bed, face down, his shoulders hunched in a way that is both a sign of his frustration and his armor against the world. 

"You gonna talk to me, Buck?" He rubs small circles on Bucky's back.

Bucky's shoulders relax at Steve's touch. "It's been one fucked up day," he sighs. "And I lied to you about it."

Steve shrugs. "You did it to protect me, I know. But I don't need protection, Bucky. Not from you." 

"Bad things happen around me, Stevie."

"I'm not buying that. I was the one Pierce victimized before I even met you."

"I'm the one who pushed you to talk to the cops. If I hadn't --"

"If you hadn't, we wouldn't know what evil he was capable of committing against innocent people. You're a hero, Buck."

"I'm no hero," he says into the pillow. 

"Sam showed me your medals, so don't say that. I've seen them, and they don't hand those out like candy. You saved my life, the lives of the people in our building when Rumlow started that fire. You're a hero. Live with it."

Bucky turns over, his arm flung over his eyes, but he's laughing. "You're like a terrier with a bone in his teeth. Did anybody ever tell you that?"

"Yeah. More than once. C'mon, Buck. You need to eat, and the food smells amazing."

Bucky sits up slowly. "Okay, already. Let's get some food so I can crawl into this bed with you."

"The only thing we're doing in this bed tonight is sleeping," Steve pokes him, and Bucky yelps. 

"Sir, yes, sir." He salutes. "Fine. Dinner, then sleep."

"My mom always said, "Live for today and let tomorrow take care of itself."

"Smart lady, but I don't know if I can wait that long." Bucky scrubs a hand over his face. "You're right. I'm hungry." 

He's dissimulating, throwing up a false front and Steve knows it. They both pretend like mad that everything will be all right in the morning.

**TBC**


	28. Chapter 28

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bucky gets his new arm. Yeah, wow. That's all that's happening in this chapter.

Bucky doesn't sleep that night, his thoughts a jumble of past and present worries. He doesn't toss and turn; he's too conscious of Steve's breathing still being a little rough and shallow and the warmth of his body tucked next to Bucky's. He thinks about being alone, being homeless -- has to remind himself that won't happen again, not with Natasha so fierce in her protection. He thinks about Stark and what is waiting for him in the morning. His heart flutters in panic, which he manages to breathe away like Sam taught him, but he doesn't sleep. He lies perfectly still and waits until the pale dawn shows through the windows, then he gets up, unable to bear lying still any longer. 

"Buck?" Steve blinks blearily at him. 

"Go back to sleep. It's too early."

"You're up."

"Just getting some water," Bucky lies. He goes into the kitchen and fills up a glass from the filtered pitcher in the refrigerator. When he looks in on Steve, he's back to sleeping. Bucky gets dressed as quietly as possible. The communal kitchen is dim, but he starts up the coffee and when his cup is brewed, he stands by the window. The snow hides a multitude of sins; a mantel over the ugly side of the city. It doesn't give Bucky any peace. He knows what that white veil of innocence hides. 

When he's finished with his coffee he activates the link to JARVIS. "Is Tony up yet?"

_"Mr. Stark is in the laboratory. Shall I let him know you're awake?"_

"Please." After a moment's silence, Stark's voice comes over the speaker. "Hey, Barnes. Come on down."

Bucky takes the elevator down to the lab where Stark is waiting. Tony's wearing a Black Sabbath t-shirt, frayed and stained jeans, and a white lab coat, which seems incongruous, but then he's a billionaire genius, so Bucky isn't about to judge his fashion choices. 

He looks up from the console. "Shirt off?" He hands Bucky a robe. "It might be a little chilly in here." With deceptive unconcern, he helps Bucky raise his shirt over his head and settles the robe over his shoulders. He steps back and raises a brow. 

"So, are you ready to embrace life fully?" Tony asks, a bit sarcastic, but not enough to offset the genuine excitement in his voice. 

He really isn't, thinking of the clumsy prosthetics, the horror of having a hook instead of a hand. He _knows_ , intellectually, that Tony wouldn't do that to him; that whatever Tony designs will be functional and most likely won't make small children run from him in terror. The only thing that matters is that he can protect Steve and he can't do that with one arm.

"Barnes?"

Bucky shivers despite the robe over his shoulders. "As I'll ever be." 

"JARVIS tell Bruce and Dr. Cho it's go time."

Bucky knows he's breathing too fast. Every part of him wants to run from the lab; every part but the stubborn heart of him that won't back down from his promise to keep Steve safe. Tony is looking at him, his brown eyes concerned and soft. "You can trust us, Barnes. We aren't out to hurt you. Even if this arm only works at seventy-five percent capacity, it will be ten times more functional than anything you dealt with at the VA."

Bucky draws a deep breath to steady himself. "Okay."

Tony is still frowning at him. "Do you want Steve here with you?"

"No," Bucky says flatly. "He doesn't need to see this." He hopes his voice isn't shaking as Bruce and Dr. Cho come into the lab, Bruce pushing a cart with a what look like cables and a vaguely arm-shaped lump under a drape. He's followed by Dr. Cho and one of Tony's robots moving a cart with a laptop and some other sort of monitor on it. It's not reassuring, and a shudder runs through Bucky's body. 

"Easy," Tony rests a hand on his right shoulder. "You'll be fine. Aren't you just a little bit curious about this? He nods to Bruce, who slowly pulls the drape aside, revealing … 

Bucky blinks. In all of his nightmares or fantasies, he had never envisioned anything like this prosthetic; all sleek metal plates that form a gleaming skin that floats over a frame that mimics Bucky's bones and musculature. It's beautiful, and he swallows hard and whispers. "Can I touch it?"

"I hope so. It's yours after all."

Bucky runs a finger over the curves and joints. Even the fingers are intricately fashioned of delicate plates. Bucky touches a soft pad on the forefinger. "Will I be able to feel with this?"

"Eventually, when you're ready to have the surgery to join the neural connectors to your nerves. But if you want to use this now, you'll be able to grip and maneuver the fingers, but you won't actually feel textures or temperature."

Bucky is still trying to take it all in. He doesn't notice Dr. Cho approach with a hypodermic, but when he does, he's off the table and backing off, all the old memories and fears overcoming his wonder. "No drugs!" He manages to gasp. There are black spots at the edges of his vision and his heart is pounding.

"Sergeant Barnes, please. Listen to me. "This is a muscle relaxant. It is not anything else, but in order to fit the prosthetic, we need to be able to manipulate your arm and shoulder. This will make it easier for you … and for us. I promise it will not affect you in any other way. It will wear off in thirty minutes, and then we can start working on trying out your new arm."

She sets the hypo down carefully. "Please … trust us. Let us do this for you." She holds out her hand, waiting. 

Long minutes pass while Bucky struggles to come down from the panic that the sight of the hypodermic induced. Finally, his breathing calms and his heart stops pounding. He takes Cho's hand and lets her bring him back to the examination table. "May I?" She points to the hypodermic. Bucky nods, his hand clenched in a fist. He stiffens when she swabs his arm, and doesn't watch as she gives him the shot. 

"Thirty minutes, right?"

"Starting … now." She smiles. In less than a minute, he can feel his hand unclench, the tension leave his shoulders. The pain in his left shoulder, which is nearly constant, slowly fades. He doesn't feel drowsy or drugged, just loose, like after a good workout and a warm shower. He takes the bottle of water Tony hands to him and drinks deeply. "Okay, I'm ready." 

"Yes, I think you are." She turns to Bruce. "We can start when you're ready."

^*^*^*^*^*^*^

The process doesn't _hurt_ , but he's not used to having so many hands on his skin, moving his body in ways that seem far too intimate, and despite the drug, his muscles are trying to tense up. He can feel beads of sweat gathering at his hairline, and the monitors Banner has him hooked up to are starting to emit alarming beeps. Bruce notices his distress and speaks up for Bucky.

"Can we step back a for a moment?" Bruce is looking at Bucky sympathetically. "We all need a break and this is a good point to take a look at the scans." He passes Bucky more water and wraps the robe around his shoulders. Bucky wants to weep at his kindness. It's not that Stark is unkind, or Cho, but they are so wrapped up in this project that he imagines they forget there is a human being on the other side. 

"How does the fitting feel?"

Bucky considers. "It doesn't hurt. It's not too tight, but it doesn't feel like it's gonna slide off, either."

"Good." 

Despite his discomfort, Bucky can't help asking, "What's it made of?"

"A proprietary electro-conductive silicone."*

"English, please?"

Bruce chuckles. "Okay, it's a silicone fitting that conducts electrical impulses from your muscles to the circuits in the arm — not so different than the current solenoid technology — but infinitely more comfortable and sensitive."

"Sounds like it will be hard to learn to move," Bucky ventures.

"It's really not. Gross movements should be almost instinctive. Fine motor skills will follow. The thing is, the circuits in the arm are pre-programmed, and intelligent. They 'learn' from repetition, So the more you use them, the more instinctive they will become as well."

"I can't move anything," Bucky says.

"We have to activate the circuits." Bruce hesitates before he continues. "That's the downside. It might be — it _will_ be uncomfortable, possibly unpleasant."

"For how long?"

"Ten, fifteen minutes. Can you do it?"

Bucky swallows, "Yeah." He hopes he can. At least he has a timeframe and a goal. "I'm good. Let's get this over with before I chicken out."

Tony just snorts, like he knows about Bucky's drawer full of medals and citations. Maybe he does, but he doesn't know what it cost Bucky to earn them; the pain, fear, and trauma that still haunts him physically and emotionally. 

Still, Bucky thinks he can deal with ten minutes of discomfort if he stays focused on the _now_ … if he stays focused on Steve. 

Dr. Banner is right. The discomfort borders on pain, and it makes Bucky feel dizzy and faint, either from panic, or just because it is physically stressful. He doesn't look at the arm, or the biomedical equipment or Cho and Banner's faces. Tony, his work done, is watching them with interest, and pacing occasionally. He looks as uncomfortable as Bucky. Maybe it's just his unease at causing physical pain when most of his work is theoretical. 

"James?" 

He looks up, blinks at Dr. Cho. "We're finished."

Shit, he hadn't even noticed when the pain stopped. "Oh. What next."

"You may have to concentrate, but please raise your left arm."

It takes a second for the command to go from his brain to the muscles in his arm, but he raises the arm, expecting to shake or feel something, but it doesn't feel all that much different than raising his right arm. He flexes his elbow, straightens it, and nearly cries, because he's fucking _whole_ again. Fascinated, he watches the plates slide against each other, almost like the muscles are moving under the skin. "Can I see it in a mirror?" he asks. 

Bruce wheels a full length mirror over, and Bucky doesn't even ask why Tony needs a mirror in his lab. It's just so Stark. He looks at his reflection, half-afraid to take in the full picture, starting with the easiest thing first. He sees a young man, still too thin for his height and build, but probably better than he was a year ago. His dark hair is wavy, a bit of a mess. Oddly, he's okay with it. He's too pale, though. He forces his gaze down. Right arm, strong and smoothly muscled, the long bone of his clavicle is bowed gracefully … then the scars start. Even after the passage of two years, they're still rough and reddened. But … instead of the truncated stump of his arm, his eyes follow the silver waterfall of Tony's miraculous creation. It matches the musculature of his flesh and bone arm, so it doesn't look unbalanced or awkward. It caps his shoulder, hiding the worst of his scarring. When he bends his elbow, a barely detectable hum runs through it, not unpleasant to his ears or to his body. 

"James?" Bruce queries. "Are you alright?"

Bucky blinks, and to his horror, his eyes fill with tears that spill down his cheeks. He dashes them away impatiently -- with his _left_ arm. He looks at the water droplets on the silver skin. "I'm … fine." His voice is filled with wonder. "How … why … why have you given me this? I'm nobody, nothing. I can't pay anything. Shit, I can't even wrap my brain around what this must have cost."

Tony answers him in a surprisingly soft voice,."My own reasons aside, you're a war hero, a veteran, and if that's not reason enough, you're our friend," Tony says, his voice a little rough, so just say 'Thanks, Tony,' and we'll call it even."

"But -- "

Tony hold up his hand. "Just don't. Billionaire, genius, philanthropist, blah, blah, blah." Tony waves him off. 

"Thank you," Bucky says, knowing that he's way too much in Tony's debt, so he might as well cut his losses and surrender gracefully. "Umm … will this be available to other vets like me?"

"That's the plan. You're doing me a favor, Barnes."

Bucky's more comfortable being Stark's guinea pig than he ought to be, but if that's how he can repay Tony, he'll do it.

**TBC**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NOTE: * _When an electric field was applied to the cell suspension introduced on the CNT-coated scaffold, the cells became aligned in a pearl-chain pattern. These results indicate that CNT coating not only provides electro-conductivity but also promotes cell adhesion to the silicone scaffold; cells seeded on the scaffold can be organized using electricity. These findings demonstrate that CNT-coated silicone can be useful as a biocompatible scaffold._  
>  By: Matsuoka, Makoto; Akasaka, Tsukasa; Totsuka, Yasunori; Watari, Fumio. Materials Science & Engineering: C. Apr2012, Vol. 32 Issue 3, p574-580. 7p. DOI: 10.1016/j.msec.2011.12.011.
> 
>  
> 
> And here I thought it was just something I made up! Of course, I'm not on solid scientific ground here, being an English Lit major ... but roll with it and excuse my stretching the truth.
> 
> I was planning on having a scene with Steve at the end, but it seemed like that would fit better in the next chapter.


	29. Chapter 29

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bucky angst. Okay, that's about it. Angst. Some cuddles, and Clint, which is always a good thing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is short, but this week is going to be a killer, then I have a wedding to go to on the weekend, I'd rather post than make you all wait. I promise the next chapter will be HUGE ... or at least longer. Everybody take a breath.
> 
> Warning for a _very_ brief moment when Bucky misjudges his strength.

Bucky is still marveling at the arm, twisting it from side to side, watching the glimmer of the lights on the silver plates, when JARVIS interrupts. "Sirs, Steven is on the elevator. He seems anxious."

"Pause it for a moment, J-man," Tony orders and turns to Bucky. "It's your call."

Bucky nods. "Sure. It's not like he'll never see it."

"Okay, JARVIS. You can bring Steve to the lab."

"Yes, sir." The hiss of the elevator doors opening makes them all turn. Steve is standing there, looking wide-eyed and, as Jarvis had said, anxious. 

"Bucky, are you okay?"

Bucky stands up, shielding the left side of his body. "I'm fine. We're done here, right?"

Bruce speaks up, "For now. Come back tomorrow for a check up." He raises a brow at Tony and Dr. Cho. Umm, let's go over our results today, okay?"

Tony opens his mouth, then takes note of Bruce's glower and says, "Yes. Okay. Dr. Cho?"

The three doctors leave and it's just Bucky and Steve. "Bucky, are you alright?" Bucky turns, revealing the silver arm. Steve gasps. "Wow, that's … it's beautiful."

"It's a work of art," Bucky teases. "But look …" He twists his arm back and forth, raises it over his head, then extends it to Steve. "Do you want to touch it?" His voice is suddenly tentative. 

"May I?"

Bucky nods, and Steve runs his fingertips over the plates. "Can you feel that?"

"Not like I do on my own arm, but I feel it. It's kind of weird — but not bad." 

He opens his fingers, revealing the sensor tips. Steve sets his own fingertips on Bucky's. "Can you feel that?"

Bucky smiles. "Yes. But Stark says if I want, I could have more surgery, something about nerves and silicone, that would allow me to feel. For now, this is enough."

Steve looks like he's about to ask why, but he must sense Bucky's reluctance. "Okay. You didn't have to do this for me."

"I kind of did," Bucky pulls Steve in for a kiss. "But also for me." 

"Is it heavy?"

"No. It's kind of amazing. You know what? I'm hungry. Let's find some food." He suddenly wants to get away from the lab, try to find something _normal_ when he feels like the deck of a ship is tilting under his feet. He practically drags Steve into the elevator by his sleeve.

"Bucky!" Steve tugs free. "I'm here. I'm with you." 

Bucky looks at him, startled. "I-I …" he stammers, appalled at his action. "I'm so sorry, Stevie. I never meant —" He slides to the floor of the elevator and hides behind his curtain of hair. "I don't know what's wrong with me."

"First, your blood sugar has probably tanked. Second, you've just undergone a medical/technical procedure which probably stressed you out. Third, my God, Bucky, after living for two years without an arm, thinking of yourself as being that way for the rest of your life, and suddenly, you're not. It would knock anybody off-balance." He holds out his hand. "C'mon, Buck. Let's go back to our place."

"Wish we could," Bucky sighs. "I wish we were back in our place, before the fire, before all this."

"Yeah," Steve kisses the angle of Bucky's jaw. "But nobody can turn time back."

Bucky leans as much of his body's weight on Steve's shoulders as he dares. Steve takes it more easily than Bucky expects, or maybe he's just that worn down. The elevator lets them off right at their door and Steve tells JARVIS to open the door. 

Bucky huddles into the cushions, while Steve heats up some chicken soup in the microwave. He brings a mug over to Bucky. "Let's start with this, okay?"

Bucky takes the mug in his right hand and then looks at his left. "Huh, I could use a spoon if I wanted."

"Do you want?"

Bucky shakes his head. "Not really." He's tired and even though the arm doesn't require much conscious effort to move, he can still feel the drain on his energy. "I'm good. It's just kind of weird, you know?"

Steve shakes his head. "I don't know how it is for you, but I remember after mom died, I'd wake up thinking that she was in the kitchen making breakfast — then I'd remember she wasn't, and I'd have to deal with it. By the end of the day, I was exhausted from just doing all those little things she had been doing. It took a while to adjust — and that was in my mind, it wasn't like part of my body."

Bucky nods. "It's a little like that."

"Maybe you should call Sam," Steve suggests. "He must have worked with vets who have prosthetics."

"Yeah, maybe. Tomorrow." Bucky is silent until he finishes his soup. He does feel a little more grounded and substantial. "Right now, I want to curl up here with you." 

Steve is already sitting on his right side out of habit, and Bucky pulls him in, wrapping his arms (how weird is that?) around Steve. "Too tight?"

"No, it feels good, to be held like this. He turns on the TV. I was watching _Guys and Dolls_. Mind if we finish it?" When Bucky doesn't object, Steve nestles into Bucky's shoulder and they sit, watching the movie in silence. Bucky finally feels the tension ebb away and closes his eyes. He's asleep before the Sky Masterson sings "Luck, Be a Lady Tonight."

^*^*^*^*^*^*^  
He wakes up alone on the couch with the pale winter dawn coming through the windows. His boots are off, and he's covered by a warm, soft blanket. He yawns and stretches, wincing as his stump protests the weight of his new arm. He raises it, looks at the way the steel plates slide smooth as water as he flexes his elbow and wrist. He opens and closes his fingers. It takes less conscious effort than it did. Maybe fatigue and nerves had made it seem more difficult yesterday. 

He sits up, shoves his hair off his forehead and walks silently into the kitchen. He pours some orange juice and hits the button on the coffeemaker. In the bedroom, Steve is curled up on the bed, the knobs of his spine visible through his thin t-shirt. The room is warm and he's covered to the waist with a lighter weight blanket than the one he had tucked around Bucky. He looks peaceful and relaxed. Bucky opens a drawer on soundless glides and takes out a clean long-sleeved shirt, boxers, and jeans. He hopes the water running in the shower won't wake Steve, but he feels the sweat from yesterday on his skin and he wants to be clean. 

Tony said the arm is completely waterproof, and Bucky decides to take his word for it and damn the consequences if Stark is wrong. He washes his body, and with his flesh hand, works shampoo into a lather. He's not sure but he doesn't want his hair tangled in the metal plates of his hand; that would just be embarrassing. 

He towels his hair dry and after combing it, studies himself in the mirror. He should get a haircut, but it's not like he's had a lot of time to get it done. Natasha is his go to when he's needed it before all this happened. He misses her. Misses her acid humor, her wicked half-smile, just misses her friendship. Sure, he has other friends but nobody who knows him like she does. He's known Sam nearly as long, but Sam is his damn therapist, not somebody Bucky can relax around completely. He's unsettled and anxious. He doesn't know what to do.

When he comes out of the bathroom, Steve is watching him. "Sorry, I didn't mean to wake you up."

"You didn't. I guess I've had enough sleep over the last few days."

"How do you feel?"

"Good. Even my sinuses have cleared up. So … I feel pretty much back to normal. How about you?"

"Not bad, all things considered." Looks at his arm, flexes the fingers, bends the elbow and rotates his shoulder. "I guess it really is as waterproof as Stark claims. It feels better than it did yesterday. Not as raw. It'll take some getting used to having a functioning arm after two years of nothing."

Steve pushes the covers back and stands up. Bucky hasn't seen him without the bulk of winter clothes for a while, and he smiles, appraising Steve's narrow, sleek frame. It doesn't appear that he's lost any weight, in fact, he he's put on some muscle since he and Bucky have been at Stark's. It looks good on him. Bucky moves to stand behind him, wrapping him in _both_ arms; and isn't that something different? "How does it feel when I hold you?"

Steve turns. "Different, but really good. I thought the metal would be cold, but it isn't."

"Yeah, Bruce said something about some sort of sensors that will match it to my body temperature. Tony would probably add utensils if I asked."

Steve snorts with laughter. "Well, don't. That would just be freaky."

"Yeah. I don't have any desire to be a human Swiss Army knife."

"I'm gonna take a shower. Think you can make pancakes?" Steve asks.

"Sure. I can even mix them properly now." They smile at each other. It almost, almost, feels normal. 

Bucky has forgotten how much simpler life is with two functioning arms. Multi-tasking was something he thought he'd have to live without. Now, as he's whisking the batter, he can add milk the way it ought to be added, hold the bowl as he folds in blueberries and pecans. It's such a simple thing, but he finds himself dashing tears away as he scoops batter onto the griddle. 

He's startled when Steve stands next to him and slides an arm around his waist. "You okay?"

"Yeah, must be the leftover anesthesia — it always makes me a little emotional." He gives Steve a quick kiss. "C'mon, breakfast is ready." 

They're nearly finished when JARVIS announces that Clint is on his way up. There's a jaunty rap on the door and it slides open. Clint strides in, his bow case in one hand and gym bag in the other. He looks at Bucky. "So, you have this arm thing now?"

Bucky rolls his eyes. "Arm thing?"

"Cybernetic limb … whatever. Tony swears up and down that you're a freaking marvel of technology. Feel like starting some PT?"

"PT? It seems fine."

"There's fine, and there's trained. C'mon, let's find out what the Six Million Dollar man can do." 

Steve looks at Bucky. "Go on. I'll clean up. You know you want to try it out."

Steve is right. Bucky nods. "Let my get my stuff." He goes into the bedroom and Clint narrows his eyes. 

"He's okay?"

Steve sighs. "Honestly, Clint. He's a little fragile right now." When Clint raises his eyebrows, Steve tries to explain. "I mean he's been through so much in such a short time — some of it's been good, sure. But a lot of it's been pretty awful."

"What about you?"

"I'm fine. I wish everybody would stop asking me that."

Before Clint can reply, Bucky is back with a gym bag. "Okay, let's go." He looks grim, like he's marching off to war instead of working out at a gym.

"Relax, Barnes. It'll be fun." Clint claps him on his shoulder, then says, "Ouch … that really is made of metal."

^*^*^*^*^*^*^  
To Bucky's surprise, it is fun. Clint is easy to be around, cheerful, but focused on working with Bucky on the shoulder mobility of his new arm. "I checked with Tony and Bruce," he tells Bucky. "They're on board with these exercises, but if you feel any pain, or if something with the arm feels wrong, stop and we'll get it checked out, okay? This isn't about being a hero, it's about learning how to function with the arm, right?"

"I'm not stupid."

"You're not, but I was military before I was a champion archer. I took up archery because I blew out my knee on an op, and then pushed my recovery so hard that I ended up with a knee that is more titanium than bone because I was too stubborn and macho to admit that I was in pain."

"Not that macho," Bucky said. "I'm gay."

Clint laughs. "Yeah. It didn't stop me from being an idiot, either."

After the therapy, Clint gets out his bow. "Target practice?"

"I'm not an archer."

"Stark Industries was in the business of arms — apparently still is —" Clint cackles at his own joke, and Bucky glowers. "You were a sniper, right? Guns, then. There's an indoor gun range. Top of the line simulations without any chance of damage."

Bucky has gone still. "My eyes are fine." He picks up his gym bag. "I'll do the PT, Clint. But not the shooting. I can't." He leaves Clint gaping at his departing back.

TBC


	30. Chapter 30

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bucky visits Natasha, discovers a paper trail, and makes a decision. And there is sex.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The rating on this chapter is definitely Adult, because yes, there is sex. That's what happens when the author needs to jump start the muse. Also, Bucky uses some derogatory terminology to refer to himself, but Natasha isn't buying any of his shit. 
> 
> I've done two spell-checks, but I'm sure there are some errant typos that I'll have to fix later. I just wanted to post this before y'all gave up in despair. 
> 
> Thank you for staying with this story. The journey nears the end.

Bucky is relieved that Steve isn't in their suite when he returns from the gym. There is a note — an actual paper note — left on the refrigerator telling him that Steve's gone with Pepper to meet an artist whose work she's considering for the Stark collection. They're in the executive suite for the meeting and lunch. Steve is safe, which is important. And Bucky is on his own. He's not a prisoner; not technically, and he really wants to see Natasha. He showers, changes into jeans, and a long-sleeved shirt. With a leather jacket and gloves on, he looks … he looks normal.

He takes the elevator to the main floor and ignores JARVIS' queries if he needs assistance. He doesn't. He wants to be left alone. Now that he has a functioning arm, he doesn't stand out in a crowd. He finds a barbershop and stops in for a shave and has his hair cut to brush his collar, with the sides a bit shorter, but long enough to keep off his forehead and tuck behind his ears. He doesn't examine the reasoning behind the changes. He doesn't need to hide behind his long hair, he doesn't need to walk like he's unbalanced and afraid of somebody brushing against what's left of his arm. He doesn't think it's a sea-change, but rather like finding himself again. He's not naive enough to think his issues have gone away; they're still there and they could ambush him again if he lets his guard down. 

He takes the train to Brooklyn and walks to Natasha's. The place where his home used to be is now a pile of rubble. Backhoes are clawing down the remainders of the walls. It's depressing and it makes Bucky's arm ache with phantom pain. He turns away and opens the door.

The familiar aroma of roasting coffee and sweet pastry surrounds him with comfort. Natasha is at the register, something she hasn't done in years. He strolls over to the table where the staff usually sits and lowers himself into the chair. It doesn't take long for Natasha to appear at his table. 

"And here I thought you were coming to work." She says acidly. "You are still in my employ, you know."

"Hey, Tasha. Quit harassing your customers."

"I only harass my staff," she says sweetly. Then gives him a look. Blinks. Looks again. Her eyes narrow. "Something's different."

"What? You mean this ol' thang?" He nonchalantly raises his metal arm and wriggles his fingers. "Courtesy of Tony Stark."

"Hmm. Now you won't have any excuses -- no more rubbing your shoulder and looking at me with those sad puppy eyes." She bites her lip when he winces and rests his arm on the table. "Does it hurt?"

"It aches," he admits. "Mostly because my muscles aren't used to the weight. I mean it's light, but I've been kind of lopsided for the last two years, so this is my body telling me it knows something's different."

She raises her hand to Thor and holds up two fingers. A moment later he brings two black coffees over. "Good to see you again, James," he says gravely. 

"Thanks, Thor. Just thought I'd pay a little visit." He smiles and cautiously sips the coffee. Natasha cools hers off with a dollop of milk. 

"You're going to burn your esophagus."

"Nah, I'm used to it." 

"Why are you here?"

"Stark Tower is great, but a little claustrophobic. I needed to get out into the real world again."

"The real world hasn't been particularly kind to you."

Bucky shrugs. "A guy's gotta live in it, though."

"How's Steve?"

Bucky smiles. "He's good. He's better at being cooped up than I am, probably 'cause he was sick all the time when he was a kid."

"Does he know you're here?"

Bucky shakes his head, wishing his hair would hide his expression like it would have a few hours ago. 

"What is it?" Natasha asks. She sets her hand over Bucky's, and he takes it in his, small and comforting, but strong as steel. 

He takes a few more sips of coffee and looks out the window at the people walking past. They have no idea what's happening in this world. No thought to men like Pierce and Rumlow. If they had only seen half of what Bucky has seen, they'd be cowering behind closed doors. 

"You're not invulnerable, James. You don't have to do this alone."

"I know, Natasha. But Steve …"

"From what I know of Steve, he can match you for courage pound for pound."

"'Tasha, Steve's brave beyond physical courage, but you've seen him. He can't fight like I can, he can't go through what I can. I'd _die_ for him."

Natasha's grip tightens painfully. "What good would that do either of you? Don't be an idiot, James. You were a soldier, once, but now you are —"

"Nothing but a crip? A weak fag?" He pulls away from her forcefully. "Not any more. I've got this … " He picks up his mug and squeezes until it shatters in his grip. "And, yeah, I'm a fag. Been one all my life and I'm still here." He stands and leaves the shop without another word. Natasha sits with her face in her hands for a moment, then she digs her phone out of her pocket and makes a call.

^*^*^*^*^*^*^  
Bucky doesn't pay much attention to anything; not the cold, not the snow starting to fall. He isn't aware of the cold eating into his bones until he nearly bowls over a guy in a dark coat, a hood pulled low over his face. He stops short. "Sorry."

"Maybe ya oughta watch where your going." The man shoves Bucky back against the wall. 

"Yeah, yeah. Got it. Sorry." He rubs his right arm and pauses. There was something familiar about that guy. He didn't recognize the face, but he knew the type. The stride was military, hair cut marine short, broad shoulders. Not real military, but more like the mercs employed by private security like Blackwater. The kind of guys like Rumlow … 

Bucky forgets about the cold. He pushes away from the brick wall and waiting for a few seconds, he slips back into the stream of pedestrians keeping an eye on the back of the guy's head. Did it occur to him that he was walking into a trap? Sure. Why else would the guy have run into him? Bucky pats down his jacket and finds the tiny tracker pushed deep into his pocket. Bucky pauses and ducks into a dry cleaners. The front is deserted. He can hear machinery running in the back. He digs the tracker out of his pocket and puts it in one of the coats hanging on the rack.

He ducks back outside; for a moment he can't see the guy, but he catches sight of him heading towards the subway. Bucky watches him disappear down the steps and decides that following him further would be a waste. Somehow, he had picked Bucky out of the crowd, followed him to Natasha's … Bucky chews his lip. Maybe he hadn't followed him from the Tower; maybe he'd staked out the old place figuring either he or Steve would show up there, or even staking out Natasha's. It would be just like Pierce to hire an army of mercenaries to keep watch on the old hangouts, and Bucky has just played into his hands. 

Grimly, he returns to Natasha's. "What is it?" she asks, seeing something in his eyes.

"I need to see the security feed from yesterday to today."

"You know where it is," still, she follows him to the back office where he pulls the cameras up on her computer. He studies the screen and flicks through the images, isolating them by hour. Finally, at the close of business the previous day, he pauses the video. He points to a tall, dark-haired man wearing a suit. Nice disguise, Bucky admits. Today, he had looked like a vagrant. 

"That's him. Did he pay with a card?"

She writes down the time and sorts through the day's receipts. She pauses, grinning. "He did."

She hands it to Bucky. The name on the card is familiar. "I don't believe it."

"What?"

"The guy isn't Rumlow, but he used one of his aliases, the dumb fuck. He should have paid cash. Now we have a trail to follow." Just to be sure, he looks at the feed from earlier in the day. Today, he paid with a different card; this one under an unfamiliar name. He calls Tony. "I'm sending two images of receipts. Can you trace the accounts? Good." He takes the photos, making sure they're clear and sending them. "Got them? Thanks, Tony. If Steve is looking for me, I'll be back in a few minutes, okay? You don't have to do that. Okay, okay. I'll wait."

Natasha leans in and kisses his cheek. "Go home, James. Now that I know what to look for, we'll be fine here."

"These guys are ruthless, Natasha. I don't want you or anybody else to get hurt."

"I can take care of myself. I'm not alone. I miss you though."

"Miss you, too. So does my bank account. I'm sorry about all this."

"I should be used to it. It just never fails to amaze me how wretched people can be when greed overtakes their sense of … " She shrugs. "How about I call a taxi for you?"

"Stark is sending a car." He must look disgruntled because Natasha pulls the ends of his hair. "Nice cut, by the way."

"Thanks … I think."

Stark's driver arrives a few minutes later; the cut of the uniform not quite hiding the Glock at his side. Trust Tony to go the extra mile. Still, he's grateful for the protection and the anonymity of the darkened windows, as they make their way through mid-town traffic. 

^*^*^*^*^*^*^

Steve is pacing when Bucky opens the door to their suite. His hair is mussed like he's been running his fingers through it impatiently. He rounds on Bucky, furious. "What do you think you're doing?"

Bucky blinks. "I went out."

"Obviously."

"Calm down. I'm fine, nothing happened." 

"Really?"

Bucky rolls his eyes. "Natasha called." It really isn't much of a guess. 

"She wanted to make sure you got here safely because apparently, you were followed by one of Pierce's men."

"One of his lackeys. I could have taken him down with one arm. The guy was an amateur." Bucky goes to the kitchen and pours himself a glass of water. "I could have followed him, but I came back, okay?"

Steve's knees seem to give out on him and he sinks down to the couch. "I was worried."

Bucky sits on the ottoman in front of the couch. "I just needed to get out. To feel normal again. To see if I still have a job, though I'm reconsidering since my boss is a snitch." He runs his hands up Steve's thighs, stretching out his back and resting his head on Steve's knees. He closes his eyes as Steve combs light fingers through his hair.

"You got it cut."

"Yeah. It was getting annoying."

"You look pretty handsome," Steve tugs lightly. "You're gonna start looking for a new boyfriend?"

Bucky lifts his head. "No. I'm with you until you get tired of my shit and kick me out." He's trying to smile, and failing miserably. 

"Me? I'm with you to the end of the line, Buck." 

Bucky surges up and kisses him. "Me, too." Steve might be annoyed, but it doesn't keep Bucky from moving from the floor to the couch, tangling his legs with Steve's and letting the kiss deepen. He feels Steve grow hard and his own body responding. He grinds his palm against Steve's crotch and rubs him through his jeans. 

"Buck …" Steve says breathlessly. 

Bucky is happily nuzzling against Steve's neck, leaving little love bites just below the collar of his t-shirt. "Hmm?"

"Bed?"

Bucky lifts himself up on his elbow, aware that this is something he couldn't do a week earlier. "Or we could stay here," he whispers. He doesn't want to move, to leave the warmth of the fire. "Nobody's watching. JARVIS, go dark for a few, okay?"

"Yes, sir."

"And lock the door — even for Tony. We're fine."

"Yes, sir." 

Steve laughs into Bucky's shoulder. "When did you and JARVIS become such buddies?"

"Since I discovered he could lock doors." He stands up, strips off his sweater and unties his boots, toeing them off before he wriggles out of his too-tight jeans. He turns around and Steve is watching him, his eyes bright, and his cheeks flushed.

"God, Buck. You're fucking gorgeous."

"And you have too many clothes on." He lifts Steve's t-shirt off, kisses over the already kiss-reddened skin on his collarbones, and eases Steve's jeans and briefs off. He loves Steve's body; slim and pale, but masculine, with broad shoulders and long legs, despite his small frame. Bucky kneels and nuzzles into the curls at Steve's groin, reveling in his scent before he takes Steve into his mouth. 

"Feels so good," Steve sighs, and moves, fucking Bucky's mouth slowly. Bucky fondles the weight of Steve's balls; they nestle into his hand, warm and heavy. He rolls them in his fingers, and Steve nearly arches off the couch. 

"Shh, shhh." Bucky kisses his way to Steve's lips. "Tell me what you want, babe."

"You. In me. Please …"

"Hold that thought." Steve makes a disappointed sound when Bucky leaves him and goes into the bedroom. He reappears, lube in his hand. He flips the cap and squeezes it on his fingers, slicking them up. Before he starts prepping Steve with his fingers, he uses his tongue; lapping delicately at the sensitive skin of Steve's anus. Steve makes a sound between a sob and a laugh. "Please …" he begs. His cock is leaking, leaving smears of cum on his stomach. Bucky laps it up and gives Steve a taste on his lips.

"You're so sweet, Stevie. So sweet." Steve is writhing and Bucky can't prolong foreplay without it being painful for them both. He slips one lubed finger inside Steve, then two, stretching him. He's grateful for the metal arm, strong enough to hold him up while he waits for Steve to relax. "Easy, it will be easy. Let me in, Stevie." When the muscles around his fingers go slack, he slowly, carefully pushes the head of his cock into Steve's body. 

Steve sobs in relief as Bucky begins moving deeper and deeper until he's buried in Steve's body. Steve is clutching his back, rocking his hips, seeking to find the sweet spot that will send them both flying. Bucky growls, "Let me do the work," until his cock bumps the knob of Steve's prostate. Steve's eyes fly wide for a second, his pupils completely blown. Bucky tightens his arms around Steve's body and fucks him slowly, sweetly until Steve goes rigid and gasps out Bucky's name as cum spurts between their bodies. The heat and sweet pungency send Bucky over the edge. It feels like the pulse of his orgasm will never stop, but eventually, it does. He lies there, trying to keep most of his weight off Steve's ribcage until his cock softens and slips from Steve's body. 

He shifts and gathers Steve close. Steve laughs softly. "We need to clean up, otherwise we'll be too gross in the morning."

Bucky shakes his head. "No. I want to stay like this." He nuzzles the back of Steve's neck. "Never be too gross, babe."

Steve gives him a shove. "A shower sounds so good, Buck," he wheedles shamelessly. "You and me. Steam. It'll make us feel warm and clean." He slips from the couch, evading Bucky's grabby hands. Bucky watches Steve walk naked into the bedroom and stretches lazily before he gets off the couch and follows him. 

^*^*^*^*^*^*^  
Usually, Bucky would linger in the shower with Steve, but he's starving, and pretty much fucked out. He washes quickly, leaving Steve to finish at a more leisurely pace. He heats up a meal of spaghetti and meatballs, boils water for pasta, and by the time Steve is finished drying his hair and dressing, the food is ready. 

They're in the middle of dinner when JARVIS chimes. "Sirs, if I may … interrupt?"

Bucky grins at Steve and shakes his head. "We're cool, JARVIS. Thank you. What's up?"

"Master Stark would like to see you in the lab. It is a matter of some urgency."

"Can it wait ten minutes while we finish dinner?"

"I believe that will be acceptable." He chimes out. 

"I should have known it was too good to last," Bucky sighs. "We're taking every second of those ten minutes, so don't rush, Steve." He deliberately slows his pace, following his own advice. When they've finished and the dishes are in the dishwasher, they go up to Tony's lab.

Instead of his usual manic pacing, Tony is standing thoughtfully by one of his holo-displays. He touches the display and it spins, making Bucky feel dizzy; but then just being around Tony can make him feel dizzy. 

"What's going on, Tony?" Steve asks first.

"Oh, hey. Barnes, I found the credit cards. You're right, they're both registered with Pierce, bad news is they've been reported missing."

"So, plausible deniability is in effect?" Bucky sighs. "Well, that's fucked."

"However, the transactions went through. The cards were made inactive as soon as they were used; kind of like a gift card that's reached it's value."

"Why?"

"Paranoia?" Tony shrugs. "Speaking as somebody whose level of paranoia is fairly high — The really interesting thing is that the chip in the cards records every purchase."

"We don't have the cards," Bucky reminds him. "We don't have anything."

"Actually, we do. JARVIS? Have you found the chip records for these cards?"

"Yes, sir. I believe I have that information."

"The card registered to Mr. Rumlow's alias has been used at several establishments of less than stellar repute, at several liquor stores, and at Ms. Romanov's coffee shop."

"We knew that," Bucky sighs. "All that proves is that whoever was using the card had poor taste in entertainment and excellent taste in coffee."

"Ah, but the second card is more interesting," Tony hands Bucky a print out. "Look at the delivery address."

"It's the warehouse." 

"We have a paper trail now," Tony says, his eyes bright. "Follow the money, as they say. JARVIS, find out who issued the cards and see if you can find any other accounts associated with Pierce."

"Yes, sir. That will take approximately five hours."

Steve sighs and runs a distracted hand through his hair. "I'm not the most patient guy, I know, but isn't there some way to speed this up? I feel like there's a noose being pulled tight around my neck. Around all of our necks."

Bucky slips his arm around Steve's waist. "We're getting closer, Steve. The closer we can get, the less chance of somebody being hurt."

"I don't know why we can't find some way to sick the IRS on Pierce, kind of like they did with Al Capone."

Tony raises his eyebrows. "Rogers, you aren't suggesting I hack into the IRS?"

"God, no!" Steve doesn't know whether to laugh or be aghast. "You couldn't do that … could you?"

"I could, but I kind of value my reputation and my freedom. So, no. However, there are perfectly legal ways to find information on Pierce's holding and businesses. Leave that up to JARVIS. Meanwhile, go. Have a good evening. I'll have everything from JARVIS in the morning." 

They're about to leave when Tony speaks up, "Barnes, how is the arm?"

"Good, Tony. A little tiring."

"Take it off tonight. Get a good night's sleep. That's the best way to develop those neural pathways."

"Sure, Tony. Thanks." 

The go back to their suite. Steve looks unsettled. "I'm gonna stay up and paint for a while."

Bucky, who's as restless as Steve nods. "I'm gonna go to the gym. Work out a bit. Don't worry, I won't stress the arm." He kisses Steve, half-tempted to just stay on the couch and watch him paint, but too restless to let himself relax. He gathers up some workout wear and steps outside. 'JARVIS, is Clint here?"

"I believe he is at the shooting range."

"Great." Bucky texts Clint to tell him he's on the way to the range. _What's up?_ Clint texts and Bucky takes a breath before he answers. _I think I need to try out some of those guns._ He's not happy that he'll have a gun in his hand again, but he can do it. 

**TBC**


	31. Chapter 31

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Angst, an argument, and big trouble.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's a sprint to the finish from this point on, faithful readers. I'm still hesitant about chapter numbers, but I anticipate 2 more chapters and an epilogue. Thank you for sticking with this occasionally bumpy journey. This is the second longest time it's taken me to write a fic, for which I apologize.

^*^*^*^*^*^*^

Clint is waiting at the range. He has a variety of weapons laid out. All lethal and all seductively beautiful to the soldier in Bucky. "Pick your poison."

Bucky chooses a Glock and a H&K sniper rifle that has a similar weight and heft as his combat weapon. He thinks the Glock will be more useful, but he might as well brush up on his rifle skills. He's stands in the stall, puts on noise baffling headgear and goggles, then chooses the rifle. Once it's nestled against his cheek like a lover's kiss, he takes a soft, deep breath and fires. Five successive shots and then Clint brings the paper target forward. 

"Son of a bitch," he says when he sees the target grouping, none of the shots more than a millimeter apart and all of them kill shots. "You are good," he tells Bucky. "The best I've seen and I'm damn good."

"I thought you were a bow guy?"

Clint laughs. "I am, but I started out in the army as a sniper. SHIELD thought I might be useful with alternative weapons. I grew up with the bow, so I'm better with it. Don't like guns, but I can still shoot them."

Bucky understands. He pushes the button to set up another target and takes out the Glock. The results are almost as good; all lethal if not as tightly grouped as with the rifle. He's conscious of a faint tremor in his right hand; nerves born of forcing himself to do something he'd sworn against. He'll have to practice, but not until he stops shaking. He puts the gun down and sticks his hand in his pocket. 

Clint wraps a hand around his shoulder. "You okay?"

"Yeah, just tired," Bucky lies. Having proved himself fit, he just wants to lock the guns away and go sit in a corner until the nausea fades. He doesn't want Steve to see him like this. 

Clint is watching him, his eyes soft with comprehension. "You wanna raid Tony's liquor supply?" 

Something in his tone reminds Bucky that being alone might not be the best thing for his state of mind. 

"Yeah. I think I would." Bucky smiles slightly. They stow the weapons safely, then go up to the common room. It's quiet, nobody else is around this late in the evening, not even Tony. 

"What do you want?" Clint asks as he peruses the well-stocked shelves. 

"Vodka. On the rocks."

Clint shudders. "You and Tasha."

Bucky shrugs. "We've killed a few bottles." 

"I don't want to know." Clint surveys the rows of bottles. "Tony seems to think that his guests need a liquor store. Which label do you prefer?"

Bucky takes down a bottle of Stoli. "This is Natasha's favorite," as if that's the answer to Clint's question. He pours a shot over ice in a doubles glass. Then Clint pours himself a Woodford Reserve bourbon. 

They raise their glasses. "Za zdorovje," Bucky's Russian is shit, culled from his two years in Afghanistan, where he learned the basics from their Pashto translator, which made Natasha cringe, but he figures Clint won't care. He doesn't. They toss the first shot down, then pour a second that they carry over to the couch and sit for a long space of silence. Bucky can feel the alcohol warming him, steadying his shakes. 

"How's the arm," Clint asks finally. "I mean you don't have to talk about it if you don't want to."

Bucky gives him a sidewise glance. "Good. Tony's pretty amazing."

"Tony can be an asshole, but he knows his shit when it comes right down to it. He doesn't do weapons, but he did the bow for me so it doesn't put too much pressure on my elbow."

"I thought you were retired."

"I gotta earn a living, dude." He grins, carefree and at ease. They drink awhile in silence again. This time, Bucky breaks it.

"This isn't your fight, Clint."

Clint blinks at him. "Pierce poisoned Phil. It's my fight, Barnes, whether you believe it or not."

Bucky has to take a hard swallow of his drink before he manages as much as a nod. "Thanks for that … and everything," is all he says. He sets his glass down and stands up. "It's gonna be a long day tomorrow, so I think I'll say goodnight."

"Sure thing, man. You rest up." 

Bucky takes the elevator back to the guest suite. The room is dim and quiet and smells faintly of paint. Steve must have gone to bed. Bucky peers into the bedroom. Steve is curled up, breathing softly. Bucky opens a drawer and takes out sleep pants. His arm makes a faint whirr of sound which isn't noticeable in ambient noise, but in the quiet bedroom, sounds almost alien. There isn't anything Bucky can do about it. He goes into the bathroom and adjust the shower to a fine mist. He releases the cuff that hold the arm in place and sets it carefully on the vanity before he steps inside the shower. He washes his hair, his body, and lets the steam draw the aches from his muscles. 

Briefly, he considers reattaching the arm, but he's too tired, and his shoulder aches from the weight of the arm. Stark had made it incredibly light, but the unfamiliarity of it is wearing. He makes sure it's dry after the steam in the bathroom, then puts it in the drawer where he keeps his sweats. He slides under the covers. Steve doesn't wake, he just nestles closer to Bucky's side, burying his nose in Bucky's neck. 

Bucky doubts he'll sleep, but something about the warmth of Steve's body, the rhythm of his breathing, and the security of being in Stark's tower lulls him to sleep for a few hours. What wakes him, is a nightmare. 

_Back in the mountains of Afghanistan, his rifle cradled close, his night scope focused on a convoy. Weird green glow and black shadows assault his eyes. Trucks come into view, pull to a stop. His finger tightens as he waits, motionless. Men wearing motley uniforms swarm out. They aren't his target. His target emerges from the back of a truck. He's a slightly built man in western clothes. He stands there, seems to look right at Bucky, and throws his arms wide, daring him to take a shot. Bucky freezes, paralyzed. TAKE THE SHOT! TAKE THE SHOT! The voice of his CO in his ear screams at him. He feels cold sweat trickling down his cheek, down his neck. TAKE THE SHOT!_

_He does … and the man is Steve, his eyes wide with shock, his hand over his heart, like he could stem the blood before he dies —_

Bucky starts upright, gasping for breath, his scream ruthlessly suppressed. The sweat is real, the pounding of his heart. He opens his eyes, expecting to see the glowing green from the scope. Instead, Steve is blinking at him, awakened by his sudden movement. His hand is over his heart and Bucky snatches it away. There is no blood marring Steve's pale skin, but his eyes are wide.

"Buck?" His hand grips Bucky's wrist. "You're safe. You're in Stark's tower. I'm fine." He repeats it several times, and after the third or fourth go around, Bucky falls back against his pillow, his forearm shielding his eyes. 

He swallows, shivering now that the adrenaline spike is falling fast. "Nightmare," he manages to rasp. "M'okay."

Steve pulls the covers over his shoulders. "You're not okay, Buck. You need water? Something hot to drink?" He doesn't wait for the answer. He goes into the bathroom and fills a glass from the faucet. He sets it on Bucky's nightstand, then goes to the kitchen where he heats up a cup of water in the microwave and finds a sachet of chamomile tea. He brews it, adds honey, and returns to the bedroom. Bucky is sitting up, still shivering. Steve gets a fleece blanket from the chair by the window and hands Bucky the tea before he wraps the blanket around his body. 

"You didn't have to do this."

"Yeah, I kind of did." Steve gets back under the covers, moving close to Bucky's side. "Better?"

The shakes have diminished to tremors. The hot, sweet tea is bringing up his blood sugar while the blanket and Steve's body are warming him. "Thank you," he whispers. He kisses Steve's head. 

"Do you want to talk about it?"

"No!" He doesn't ever want to think of it. He doesn't ever want to tell Steve about it. "No," he says, a bit more evenly. "It's not important. It was just a nightmare." He finishes the tea and lies back down, drawing Steve with him. "Stay with me?"

"You know I will." He kisses Bucky softly and closes his eyes. 

Bucky doesn't sleep. He forces himself to lie still, to breathe evenly until he's sure Steve is sleeping again. He watches the light go from false dawn, to the pale gray daybreak. He slides carefully from the bed, puts on his robe and goes to make coffee. 

He doesn't feel like eating, but he knows it will be a long day. He makes toast, sausages, eggs over-easy. He cuts up bananas and strawberries and stirs brown sugar into yogurt for a topping. He's halfway through his breakfast, when Steve comes into the kitchen; adorably rumpled and still half-asleep. He pours coffee and sits at the breakfast counter. 

"You didn't go back to sleep."

Bucky shakes his head. "I dozed. Then I got hungry."

"I would have sat up with you."

"I know, but there wasn't any point in two of us being awake. You needed to sleep."

"So do you."

Sometimes, Steve's perception stings like a needle. Bucky doesn't look at him. "I'm fine. You know I don't need much sleep."

"I know you _think_ you don't need much sleep."

This time, Bucky winces. "Ow." He tries to laugh. "I'm good, Stevie. I promise. Eat your breakfast before it gets cold. I'm gonna shower." He kisses the crown of Steve's shoulder as he passes. 

Steve frowns at his back. He knows Bucky well enough to recognize that something happened overnight. It's been months since he had a screaming nightmare. He's also sure that Bucky won't tell him what triggered it. 

He's finishing his coffee when he hears Bucky's phone vibrating on the counter. The caller ID is Clint's _Hawkeye_ nickname.. Steve doesn't think Bucky would mind if he answers it. "Clint?"

"Steve? Shit, did I dial the wrong number?" 

"Probably not. I'm on Bucky's phone."

"Speaking of …Where's your SO?"

"He's in the shower. I'll can take a message."

"Ask him if he's coming up to the range this morning. Honestly, from what I saw last night --"

Steve's heart plummets. He disconnects, leaving Clint in mid-sentence. He think he knows now why Bucky had been plagued with nightmares. It makes him feel a little sick, and a whole lot angry. It must show on his face when Bucky returns, dressed and with his new prosthetic in place. He looks at Steve. "What happened? I was only gone for like ten minutes."

"Clint called."

"You answered my phone?"

"Yeah. Yell at me about that later. I saw who it was and I didn't think it mattered until he asked if you were going to the range this morning since you were so impressive last night." His voice is acidic and Bucky looks like Steve had slapped him. "Were you going to tell me about that?"

"You were asleep when I got back."

"And you had nightmares about it all night long. Damnit, Bucky! Why did you do that to yourself?"

"I did it for you!"

Steve gets up and paces, running his fingers through his hair. "I don't need that kind of protection! I don't want it, and I particularly don't want you forcing yourself back into that sniper mindset. I'm not stupid Bucky. I know what that does to you and I don't want you in that headspace."

"It's my decision!" Bucky, who rarely raises his voice, is nearly shouting. "My decision because you're being an idiot about it!"

"So, now I'm the idiot?" Steve shouts back and Bucky recoils. 

"I didn't mean --"

"Yeah, you did mean it." Steve sweeps up his hoodie from the sofa. "I'm going out -- alone." When Bucky steps into his path, Steve pushes him aside. "Don't even think about stopping me," he hisses, and Bucky is so dumbstruck that Steve brushes past him unopposed. 

"Steve!" 

He pauses at the door. "What?"

"Please --"

Steve pauses and turns slowly to face Bucky. HIs face is pale, all angles, sharp bones and stubborn resistance. "What? You don't have the right to stop me."

"Maybe I don't have the right, but I have reasons to be afraid for you." He struggles to force down the anger which is stuck in his throat like a bone. "I love you, and the thought of losing you?" His anger wilts as the reality of losing Steve hits him. "I can take a lot, Stevie. I've been through enough shit in my life to know where to draw the line when it comes to my whacked-out brain. Keeping you safe? That's the one thing I'll step over the line for, no matter what it costs me." 

"What do you want me to do?" 

"Nothing. Just stay safe. Let me protect you."

"I can't. I have to live my life. I can't put that on you." 

"I'm not walking away."

"I'm going to the gallery to meet Pepper. Tony has a driver and a car waiting for me." Steve's shoulders slump. "Please don't stop me, or follow me. I'm fine. I'll be fine." He leaves, and Bucky lets him walk away. 

He sits on the couch, staring at the phone. It's not Clint's fault. It's not. He picks up the phone and calls Clint. "Hey, 'r you an' Steve alright? He hung up on me."

"I don't know. We had an argument. He was angry about me going up to the range."

"Damn! I am so sorry. It's my mouth/brain disconnect."

"No. It's not your fault I didn't tell Steve. I should have, but he was sleeping when I got in, then I had a nightmare and woke him up. I was kind of freaked, so I didn't tell him then, or this morning over breakfast. I'm an idiot."

"He'll forgive you."

In his heart, Bucky knows Clint's right, but he is still shaking and uncertain. "I know."

"Trust me, Phil and me have had more disagreements than we can count, but we're solid."

'I don't know how solid _I_ am — I mean, I love Steve, but I'm kind of a mess."

Clint barks with laughter, "And I'm not? The most solid thing in my life is Phil. without him, I'd be growing old alone." He pauses as if Bucky's doubts are palpable through two floors and concrete walls. "Is that all you argued about?"

"No. He said he doesn't need protection, that he wants to live his life and not have everybody hovering over him."

"I can't blame him for that. Listen, you want to come up here and hang out?"

"Where's Phil?"

"At the warehouse."

A chill raises the hair on Bucky's neck. He doesn't know why, but his instincts tell him something is off. "Umm, maybe I'll swing by there. You want to come with?"

"Do you want me to bring a friend?"

"If she's fast and has sharp teeth, yeah."

"Sorry, Natasha isn't available today."

Bucky laughs. "I was thinking more in terms of your bow."

"Sure. I can bring her along, too. Meet you at the garage level in five?"

"I'll be there. Bring that Sig with you."

"I'm on it."

Bucky pulls on a black hoodie and a glove to hide his metal prosthetic and changes his Chucks for his thick-soled combat boots. The leather still has a faint reek of smoke, which only increases the sense of unease Bucky's been feeling since Steve left. 

They meet at the garage level and Clint jogs towards a sleek BMW. C'mon, I borrowed the car from Stark. Figured it was a little less conspicuous than a purple, sparkly SUV." Bucky thinks the BMW will be more conspicuous in Red Hook, but probably easier to navigate through the narrow streets. They get in, and Clint roars out of the garage. 

Clint drives with the utter confidence of a man who knows the cars around him will part like the Red Sea. Between Clint's driving, and Bucky's vaguely murderous scowl, they manage to drive over the Brooklyn bridge in record time, and through the crowded streets of Brooklyn to Red Hook. 

"Park here," Bucky orders, pointing at a side street."

"Umm, why?"

"Because I have a bad feeling about this."

"Great. I needed a Star Wars reference about now." He doesn't argue, though, and the two of them jog towards the warehouse. Coulson's car is suspiciously absent. "What the …?" He starts running towards the warehouse. Bucky sprints to catch up, just managing to grab the hem of Clint's jacket. 

"Get down!" He yells, practically throwing Clint to the ground and covering him just before the building implodes and a cloud of dust and debris rains down on them. 

**TBC**


	32. Chapter 32

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A surprise, a shock, and a plan.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This has take forever to write! I apologize for the short chapter, but this cliffhanger has been lingering for too long. I will wrap this up as quickly as I can. Thank you all for staying with this story, and with me, aka The Slowest Writer in the World. It may take me a while to get there, but this will not be an indefinite WIP.
> 
> Also, RL included a very busy summer, work, and a knee injury that will require surgery. Bear with me.

The first thing he's aware of when the dust finally settles, is Clint coughing and shoving at him. "You okay?" Bucky gasps.

"Yeah, if you'd get off my ribs. Owww…" He sounds a little breathless. Bucky rolls to the side. "Thanks, man. You saved my life."

"I'm not that altruistic. I was saving my own, too." He pushes himself upright and opens and closes his left hand, relieved that everything seems to be working correctly. He brushes clumps of dust and plaster off his hair. 

Suddenly Clint is upright and starting in horror at the rubble. "Coulson!" He starts stumbling towards the building. "My God, Phil!" he gasps. 

Bucky catches up to Clint and grabs his arm. "Clint, you can't go in there, the whole place will collapse around you. Look, you said Coulson's car wasn't here, so call him. Call him!"

Clint's hand are shaking so badly that Bucky takes the phone from his grasp, finds Coulson's number in the favorites and taps speaker so Clint can hear the conversation.

Coulson's crisp voice comes over the speaker. "Clint … I'm sorry, I got called into court. I'll be there in half an hour."

Clint's knees go out from under him. "Uh, don't bother. There's been a kind of explosion."

"What? Are you alright? Clint?"

Bucky decides to step in. "He's fine. I'm fine. The warehouse -- not so fine. Somebody decided to get rid of any evidence." 

"I'll call in the bomb techs and the HazMat team in case there is any radioactive residue. You two get the hell out of there as soon as you're cleared."

"Yes, sir." Bucky says. "He's alright, really."

"I would be if you hadn't bruised my ribs when you saved my life." 

"Barton be grateful. Bucky, thank you. I'll see you both shortly." 

An ambulance, fire truck, HAZMAT unit and police cars, sirens wailing, turn the corner and come to a halt. The ambulance and HAZMAT unit pull up by Clint and Bucky, and soon they're surrounded by EMTs and techs. Give the previous radiation levels, they're scanned with Geiger counters and cleared. "Radiation levels are normal."

Bucky blinks and turns his head away when an EMT shines a light in his eyes. "I'm fine," he insists. "Everything works."

"Okay … just trying to make sure." Her eyes go to the metal prosthetic glinting through his torn jacket, then skate away, She folds the stethoscope. You've got a few abrasions on your face. I'm just going to clean them out and bandage them. Are you alright with that?"

Bucky nods. "Believe me, I've had worse."

She doesn't say much after that, but takes care of him more gently than she might have under other circumstances. Clint crouches down beside him. "How're you doing?"

Bucky shrugs. "I'm getting tired of buildings falling on top of me."

"Yeah. I got that, too. The Detective Sitwell is here. Are you up to talking to him?"

Bucky really isn't. Now that the adrenaline is fading, things are getting a little fuzzy around the edges and his nerves are firing up. He's feeling cold and disconnected and teetering on the verge of a panic attack. He shoves it down ruthlessly, gripping the edge of the ambulance door as he pulls himself up. "Let's get this over with," he grits out, "before I'm not."

Clint gives his statement to Detective Sitwell and the arson squad investigator. Then they move on to Bucky. "You didn't smell any gas?"

"No."

"Was anybody else in the building?"

"How the hell should I know? Phil Coulson was supposed to be here, but he was running late. Other than that, I don't know."

"Why were you here?"

"When Phil said he was going to go to the warehouse, I - I just - I just wanted to make sure he would be alright. I didn't like the idea that he was coming here alone."

The detective closes his notebook. "Thanks. I'll talk to Phil later. Find out what he was looking for."

The arson investigator steps in. "So, you didn't smell gas?"

Bucky shakes his head. "Not a whiff. I think we're looking at an IED."

The investigator's eyes sharpen. "Had much experience with those?"

"More than I'd like," Bucky admits. "Are we finished?"

The man is about to reply when he gets a shout. "We got a body here!"

"Shit. Now it's a murder case." He starts walking towards the rubble where the EMTs are laying a body down on a body bag.

Bucky follows him. As he gets closer, his stomach starts churning, and it's not because the body is battered and bloody. He stands over the corpse. "It's Brock Rumlow. Alexander Pierce's head of security. He kidnapped Steve Rogers, nearly killed him. He might have set off the explosion at the apartment building in Brooklyn."

"I take it you don't believe he was acting on his own," Sitwell says. 

Bucky shakes his head. "Pierce called the shots." He turns away from the mess that used to be Brock Rumlow. His stomach is churning and the wind is cutting through his jacket. A few snowflakes are starting to whirl in the wind. He shivers, a long and deep shudder. "Sorry," he says and bolts for Clint's SUV. He gets in and closes the door, his hands balled into fists, his head bowed and eyes squeezed shut until he can see his own pulse beating against his eyelids. 

He hears Clint tell Sitwell that if he has any questions to call, but that he really has to get back to Stark's. A moment later, the driver's side door opens and closes. He hears the sound of a bottle of water being opened and Clint curling his flesh hand around it. "Here, drink."

"'Fraid it'll come right back up," Bucky mutters. 

"Nah, it's just water. Small sips. I'll get you home."

Bucky takes small sips of the cool water. His stomach settles and he closes his eyes. "Sorry."

"What the hell for? You saved my life. Kept me from rushing into that building like a damn fool. That was a fucking brilliant idea to call Coulson. How'd you think of that?"

"Army. Before we cleared a bomb site we made sure all were present and accounted for. Sometimes a guy we thought was in the rubble ended up either blown clear, or had never gone in to begin with."

"Still, thank you."

Bucky's heart finally slows and he stops shaking. He opens his eyes and finds they're only a block away from Stark Tower. His nausea returns. He wonders if Steve is home, if he's still angry, if he has a chance of making things better. He sighs, "You don't have to park. Just let me off. I can make it inside just fine."

"You sure?"

Bucky smiles. "Tell me you don't want to see Phil."

Clint's eyes crinkle. "You got that right." He pulls up to the curb and Bucky gets out. He walks into the lobby and it isn't until he sees people staring at him that he realizes he's still covered in dust and is probably sporting some new bruises. One of Stark's security guards approaches him. 

"Excuse me, but you can't be here without clearance --"

Bucky pulls his badge from his pocket. The guard clears it off and runs it through a magnetic reader. "Mr. Barnes?"

"That's me."

The guard flushes and steps aside. "I'm sorry, sir. It's just --"

Bucky gives a soft laugh and give the man a dismissive shrug. "You should see the other guy." He makes his way to the elevator reserved for the private floors, scans his card and rides up to the penthouse. 

The lights are dim and there is no fire in the fireplace. "Steve?" No answer. "Jarvis, is Steve in the Tower?"

_Mr. Rogers and Ms. Potts are still out. Their projected return is in approximately an hour. Should I place a call to him?_

"No, but thanks, Jarvis." 

An hour. That will give him time to clean up and assess any damage to either the arm or to himself. "Jarvis, is Tony available?"

_Mr. Stark is in his workroom. He has not requested to be left alone._

"Tell him I'm on my way." Bucky does a quick check in the mirror, tugs his hair free of its tie and rubs it with a damp towel to get rid of the worst of the debris. He washes his face, changes his clothes and decides that's as presentable as he's going to get. At least he doesn't look like a building fell down on him. 

Tony is leaning against his workbench, a frown on his face as he studies something on his Stark tablet. He looks up when Bucky enters. "What's up?" Then he takes a closer look. "What's wrong?"

"Aside from almost being blown up and pelted with debris, I'm fine." His voice, however, is shakier than he likes. He hopes Tony doesn't notice. Of course, he does.

"Sit. Was the arm damaged?"

"I don't know, Stark. That's why I'm here." 

"Sarcasm doesn't work on me. Runs right off. Let's take a look." He starts examining the plates on the arm, then rolls back to his workbench and returns with a pair of needle-nose pliers. He starts fiddling with a bent plate that Bucky hadn't noticed. "What got blown up?" he asks.

"You know, that would be the first question most people would ask first, followed by, 'Are you alright'?"

"First of all, I'm not most people. Second, obviously you're upright and moving, so … " Tony moves on to another plate. "How does the arm feel? Open and close your fist." Bucky does and Tony nods and continues working. "Raise the arm and rotate your shoulder."

Bucky does and winces at the grating sound. "Does that hurt?" Tony asks sharply.

"No. It just sounds … not so great."

"Okay. Sorry to have to say this, but we'll need to take it off to see what's happening inside the joint. Are you okay with that?"

He's surprised Tony even asked. "Yeah, whatever you need to do." 

An hour later, minus the arm but with a painful stump and an aching head, he returns to the suite. Steve and Pepper must still be out, to Bucky's relief. He takes a painkiller for his headache and runs a warm shower with steam to follow. He sits basking in the heat, feeling all his muscles slowly relax and his headache dissipate to a dull throb. He tugs a warm hoodie over his head and pulls on flannel sleep pants. He doesn't have the energy to get dressed. He lies down on the couch, pulls an afghan over his body and falls asleep. 

^*^*^*^*^*^*^

 

He wakes up to a light touch on his forehead, and gentle fingers combing through his hair. He smiles and opens his eyes. "Hey," he says, his voice a lazy rasp. "How long have you been back?"

Steve's eyes are warm and concerned. "Long enough to have a shower and change, and let you sleep for another hour." He kisses Bucky. "We saw Tony. He told us what happened."

"You still mad at me?"

Steve smiles. "Yes, because you're an incredibly brave and careless idiot. But since that's also why I love you, it kind of cancels everything out."

Bucky's about to reach out to tug Steve down for a kiss when his phone starts vibrating on the glass coffee table. Bucky sighs. "Shit. This can't be good." He looks at the screen. "It's Sitwell." He sits up. "What's going on?" He hits the speaker so Steve can hear.

"The M.E. did a preliminary autopsy for Rumlow's cause of death. He wasn't killed by the explosion. He was … he was shot execution style … "

"Pierce." Bucky says, and it isn't a question. 

"You think it was him or you know it was him?"

"A little of both. But if he's cleaning up loose ends, Rumlow would be a liability."

"Any ideas on how to prove it? We don't have ballistic evidence."

"Cell phone?"

"Wasn't on him and it hasn't turned up in the rubble. It's probably at the bottom of the East River along with the gun." Sitwell sighs wearily. "We've got a BOLO out and his passport has been red-flagged at all airports."

"Pierce has enough money to take a private jet from anywhere on the East Coast. Don't tell me there aren't any private airfields around."

"He'd have to file a flight plan."

Bucky pauses, thinking. "What if … what if he isn't leaving the city? Rumlow wasn't the only loose end." Even as he says it, he feels sick. 

"You're safe with Tony."

Bucky is tired of having everybody thinking he's helpless and that Tony Stark can save the world. "Look, Jasper, I'm grateful to Tony, I really am, but I haven't worked in weeks. I can't live off Tony's generosity indefinitely. Steve and I both have lives that have been on hold for too long."

"We'll find the bastard," Sitwell says. "No rat can hide in the sewer forever." 

"Then we need to bait the trap."

"Got any brilliant ideas on that?" 

Actually, he does. "Meet me here in an hour."

**TBC**


	33. Chapter 33

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The plan to trap Pierce begins to come together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So many apologies for 1) being tardy in posting this and 2) for the very short length. If you've been following, you know I got distracted by an AU, but now I'm back on track, I hope. 
> 
> This is probably in need of some serious editing due to the hiatus, but hopefully the continuity isn't too screwed up. If I've made a glaring error, feel free to let me know and I will do my best to fix it!

Steve listens to the exchange with a frown creasing his forehead. He has a fair idea what Bucky and Sitwell were discussing and he doesn't like the terse tone in Bucky's voice and the set of his jaw as he speaks. When Bucky disconnects the call, Steve gets up from the sofa and stands with his arms crossed, glaring at him.

"What?" Bucky asks, even though he knows the answer. "Somebody has to do something to bring this to an end."

"And that just happens to be you?"

"I never said that."

"C'mon, Buck. I'm not stupid and I know you well enough to see the wheels turning in your mind."

"We don't know what will happen. Pierce is in the wind, and we won't be safe until he's in custody or dead."

"So, what's this great plan of yours?"

"The old bait and switch. I have something he wants."

"You do?"

"No … but I can make him think I do, at least with Tony's approval. That's the tricky part." He takes a breath. "Jarvis, is Mr. Stark in the tower?"

_He is in his workroom._

"Connect me to him via speaker, please."

A moment later Tony's voice comes over the speaker. "What is it, Barnes? I told you it would take some time to fix the arm."

"It's not the arm, Tony. Can you come up here in an hour? I wouldn't ask if it weren't important."

Tony sighs wearily. "Yeah, I can do that. It'll set my work on your arm back an hour."

"Thank you."

The speaker goes silent. Steve is glaring at Bucky. "What's going on in that head of yours, Barnes?"

Right now, a lot of doubts and worries. Bucky rubs his aching temples. "I need some aspirin." He goes into the bathroom and shuffles through the bottles in the medicine cabinet until he finds what he's looking for; plain old ordinary aspirin. He takes three and downs a glass of water. God, he feels and looks like he hasn't slept in weeks. Maybe he hasn't. 

He returns to the living room and sits, his head bowed and shoulders slumped. Steve settles behind him and starts massaging his neck and shoulders. Bucky groans as Steve's fingers work into the knots. As light as the prosthetic was, it still had been a weight and a pressure on his stump and his shoulder muscles. 

"Is that from the arm?" Steve asks, almost like he can read Bucky's mind.

"Some of it. It will get better once I can do therapy to build up the muscles that support it; at least that's what Dr. Cho says."

"You know it doesn't matter to me." Steve's breath ghosts over Bucky's skin as he kisses the crown of his shoulder. "I love you no matter what."

Bucky tips sideways, bringing Steve down with him, and curves his arm around Steve's waist. "I know. Right now, I just want you to stay with me while I try to take a nap before I have to deal with Stark."

His headache is easing up and Steve's body is warm against his. Steve drags a throw from the back of the couch to cover them, and then Bucky's asleep between one breath and the next.

^*^*^*^*^*^*^  
Tony arrives in a cloud of impatience and sarcasm. Bucky is drinking what seems like his tenth cup of coffee of the day, and he pours a cup for Tony, who prefers it scaldingly hot and uncompromisingly black. It makes Bucky's stomach roil. He's at least tamed it with milk at this time of day. Tony is uncompromising.

Tony settles in a chair and says, "Talk. Tell me what's so urgent."

"I have a favor. A big one."

"You're running out of real estate, Barnes."

Bucky stands his ground. "I know and I'm very grateful. I need this one last favor." He takes a deep breath. "I want to lure Pierce out of hiding. Steve and I aren't enough of a temptation anymore. We don't have anything he wants. But you do."

"Okay … What do you think I have that he wants? Money?"

"Not money. I'm sure he's got enough squirreled away in hidden accounts to last ten lifetimes. You have information. Proprietary information that he can exploit. He's been dealing with groups who are hungry for anything that they can use to destabilize the world as we know it."

Tony's face darkens like a thundercloud. "I'm not taking that risk."

"Of course not. But you can make him think that you will. Can't you dig up a few tidbits of tech from your old weapons division and leave out a few x's and y's in equations?"

"And you're going to find a man who's vanished off the grid, lure him away from his bolt hole with defective information? That will be quite the trick."

"He won't know it's defective. He's not that smart." 

"And the rest?"

"I'll tell him it's his if he'll leave Steve alone. Plain and simple."

"And how will you find him?" Bucky just raises a brow, and Tony snorts. "Of course. You want me to do all the hard work."

Steve, who had been silent throughout the conversation speaks up. "Bucky's the one putting himself in danger, Tony. Don't forget he also threatened Pepper's life."

Tony winces. "Low blow there, Rogers."

"You know I'm right."

Tony heaves himself out of the chair. "You owe me, Barnes."

"You know I can't repay you, so that's kind of an empty threat."

That makes Tony laugh. "Come see me in an hour. I might have some information by then."

Steve glares at Tony's departing back, then turns an equally fierce look on Bucky. "Jesus Christ, Buck! Why do you think you can do this without even asking me if I think this is a good idea? Why are you always throwing yourself on a grenade." When Bucky whitens and gasps, his hand rubbing at his stump involuntarily, Steve feels like shit. "I'm so, so sorry, Bucky. I didn't mean …"

"Yeah, you did." Bucky turns away and looks out the window. "It's okay. It might not work out, and Pierce will be out there free as a bird, sitting on some beach in the Caymans while everybody else tries to pick up the pieces of their lives."

"Would that be so bad?" Steve says softly. "Just go back to before?"

Bucky shakes his head. "You know what this taught me?" He touches his left shoulder. "There is no going back to before. I'll never have my flesh and blood back, but we've been through too much to allow Pierce to take away our future."

Steve rests his head on Bucky's right shoulder. "I don't know what to do, Buck."

"Neither do I. I'm just playing by ear."

^*^*^*^*^*^*^  
True to his word, an hour later, Tony calls to tell them he might have an idea about where Pierce is hiding. It turns out Bucky is right. Pierce is still in New York. "Where?" Bucky asks.

"It's not one hundred percent," Tony reminds him. "But after running through credit transactions over the last two days, Jarvis found something that ticked an alarm -- a card under an alias that Rumlow used and claimed lost. The account was reactivated. He used it to rent a private plane -- nothing fancy, just a twin engine Beechcraft, older model, but reliable. He's trying to fly under the radar, as it were. We may not need to bait the trap now that we're on the trail." 

Bucky's brain is trying to catch up. "How do we know he's not baiting us?"

"Pierce isn't stupid, but he is an egotistical maniac, and he's not without resources. I'm sure he found a hacker willing to do the work, or forced to do the work. He always thinks he's the smartest man in the room, but he never looks past the door."

"But why risk using a credit card instead of cash?"

"Because he has to fuel up, stock the plane, and get that flight plan filed. The airport won't use cash for online transactions. According to this, Pierce is planning to fly to Miami using the alias Dr. Robert Rossman. He's departing from a private airfield in New Jersey." 

"Like fuck he is," Bucky growls. "Call Sitwell. He's got to know some cops in Jersey who can pick him up at the airport. Let's put this fucker away, Stark. I'm sick of him."

"Such language!" Tony snorts. 

"So, sue me. I was in the army we all swear like a bunch of motherfuckers."

Tony laughs. "Now that's just provoking me."

"How's the arm coming along?"

There is a moment of silence. "I have to rebuild some of the solenoids."

"Right. How long?"

"Tomorrow morning. I promise."

"And when is Pierce taking off?"

"Flight plan says 11am. You don't have to be there, you know."

"I want to see him in cuffs. I want to see him tied up so tight that Houdini couldn't tell him how to get out."

"I got you," Tony says. "I'll have the arm ready at 6am, and a chopper ready to get to Jersey." 

"Thanks, Tony." Bucky ends the call and turns to Steve. "You got the jist of that, I take it."

"I did."

Bucky sits next to Steve and rests his head on the back of the couch. He's starting to feel every ache and bruise from earlier, and he's tired. "I wish I could get in a car and sit at the airport right now."

"And what? Sit there for hours in the dark, freezing? I can think of better things to do with a few hours." Steve's voice drops into that smoky zone that goes right to Bucky's groin.

He raises a brow. "What did you have in mind?"

"Sleep, for one."

"And what's the other one?"

Steve shifts so that he's sitting on Bucky's lap, his fingers twined in his hair. He kisses Bucky tenderly, and then with more passion. Bucky gives in, kissing Steve deeply, his hand roving under Steve's sweater and sliding under his belt to the soft skin and rough hair just below his navel. Steve sighs into Bucky's mouth. "Bed?" he queries even as his heart quickens. 

"If I had two arms, I could do a bridal carry," Bucky teases. 

"You think I'd let you?"

"Sure, Stevie. You know you would." He nibbles at Steve's neck. "You'd do anything I'd ask."

Steve snorts. "Not that easy, Buck." He stands up and holds out his hand to pull Bucky to his feet. "Let's see how far that goes," he says, his eyes wicked and tempting. 

Bucky discovers it goes quite far, and he's not ashamed to chase it until Steve is gasping and writhing as Bucky fucks him slowly to orgasm, following him down as he clenches around Bucky's cock. 

Later, showered and wrapped up in each other beneath Tony's luxurious bedding, Bucky lies awake, listening to sleep gradually claim Steve. His breath brushes Bucky's collarbone and Bucky kisses his forehead. "Love you, Stevie," he whispers. 

Steve makes a sound of contentment but doesn't fully wake. "Okay," he mumbles, and Bucky laughs to himself. He'll remember this moment for as long as he lives. Which he sincerely hopes is beyond tomorrow.

 

**TBC**


	34. Not a Chapter just an Update

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dear readers, I have not forgotten this story. I actually was in the midst of writing the next chapter when I suddenly had an idea for an original story, and I had to follow my muse.

I am now 60K into an original mystery/thriller. One of the characters is loosely based on Bucky, but only in that he is a homeless veteran with one arm. There are so superpowers, no super soldiers, no spies and assassins. It's probably the best writing I've done in an original story in a long time, and I'm very, very excited about it. 

I am not abandoning this story, but I ask you patience. I hope to update it and complete it very soon. My apologies for leaving you all hanging, but writing something that might actually sell, is too enticing. 

I promise to have this story completed by the time the Infinity Wars insanity leaves us all breathless!


End file.
